


Just Dance

by 7PercentSolution



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Ballroom Dancing, Blackmail, Don't copy to another site, Drug Use, F/M, It's For a Case, M/M, Old fashioned courtship, Sherlock loves dancing, Unrequited Love, abusive boss
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-31
Updated: 2020-09-29
Packaged: 2021-03-06 17:34:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 22,784
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26212753
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/7PercentSolution/pseuds/7PercentSolution
Summary: Four dances that Sherlock taught Janine — and one he didn’t. Never mind if it leads him into dangerous territory; how could Sherlock resist a case from Lady Smallwood that lets him use his dancing skills? This is a gift work to Silvergirl, who is an inspiration to us all.
Relationships: Mary Morstan/John Watson, Sherlock Holmes/Janine, Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 110
Kudos: 118





	1. Prologue: Invitation to the Dance

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Silvergirl](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Silvergirl/gifts).



> Set during the month when the Watsons were on honeymoon and then back home without seeing Sherlock.

Lady Smallwood's driver parks the Rolls in front of 221b, on the double yellow lines that were painted there after the bomb exploded across the street. She knows that it will show up on CCTV and be identified by Mycroft's people, but in the state she is in right now, she doesn't give a damn. If Mycroft hadn't been away, she would have told him about what had just happened in the club with that loathsome Magnussen. Little brother will have to do.

oOoOoOoOo

Lady Smallwood leaves Baker Street at nine pm, and at 9.15, Sherlock is on the phone. During one of the pauses in the endless meal at John and Mary’s wedding, he had found out from Janine that she worked in media — PA to none other than Charles Augustus Magnussen. Having stored that nugget in his Mind Palace, then been distracted by having to give his best man speech, he gave it no further thought. Well, he did have not one but three cases to solve before the dancing started — the Mayfly Man, the Bloody Grenadier and then the attempted murder of Major Sholto.

Now, however, a client’s case demands his attention, and he takes out the nugget, dusts it off and thinks about it for a while. Janine is his perfect route in; he wonders what it would take to get her to help him out. Motivations of the human female elude him even more than those of men.

She answers on the fourth ring. “Hello?”

Not out of breath, or worse for drink, just… normal.

“Janine.” He puts on his cheerful voice. “Sherlock Holmes here. I hope I’m not interrupting anything?”

“Hello!” Surprise and pleasure are evident in her voice. She gives one of her husky-throated laughs, “Chance would be a fine thing, Sherlock Holmes. I’m home alone, just me and a glass of Chardonnay, catching the latest Scandinavian thriller on the box. To what do I owe the honour of a call from the world’s only consulting detective?” There is always a slight tease in her voice; he'd noticed that at the wedding.

“It has occurred to me that I never managed to get that dance with you.“

“Well, that was my loss, I can tell ya. Made the biggest mistake there, but then I didn’t have you to stop me. Met him on the dance floor while you were up there playing the waltz on your fiddle, so you couldn’t save me from Mister Clingy.”

Sherlock stares at his phone. _Mister Clingy_?

“He was a great dancer, and an even better kisser but Lordy, it took me ages to get rid of him the next morning.”

“Then you succeeded in your ambition of going home from the wedding with someone to have sex with?” He puts it as mildly as he can. He is not adept at innuendo.

“Yeah, but if you’d done your super x ray vision thing, you probably could have told me he was a mistake — not bad in bed, but oh so sure that I was the love of his life. Pity was, he sure wasn’t mine; poor as a church mouse. So, what’s a girl to do?”

“Not being one, I have no idea. What _is_ a girl to do?” He is getting slightly distracted by the line of conversation.

“Well, keep trying, I guess. Someday my prince will come, as Disney would have us believe.”

He briefly wonders what a disney is—something he’s deleted?—before returning to the reason for his call. “While you’re waiting, I wondered if you meant it about wanting to learn how to dance. I could teach you.”

“Oh.” She sounds genuinely surprised. “Proper dancing, like the ballroom stuff?”

“Well, I’m assuming that your purpose in learning would be to attract some suitable young man. The statistics show that those males who are competent ballroom dancers come from a higher socio-economic group, with significantly better educational achievement, and from an income bracket that would be attractive to you. Clubbers and those attending raves at your age aren’t really husband material, are they?”

“Right you are about that; I’m past the Ibiza boys. It’s not about getting into the sack; it’s about buying the house and having the kids. John and Mary have got the right idea. I’m just an old- fashioned girl, as me mam would say.”

“So, you’d be willing?”

“Well, why not give it a whirl? Yeah. When?”

“Tomorrow night? I’ll book a dance studio in Covent Garden. I’ll bring some music and we can take it from there.”

“I get off at six… Could be there by six-thirty."

Sherlock knows where she works. Magnussen's office had been one of the first parts of his research. "It's within walking distance from your office; it shouldn't take you thirty minutes."

"Me, walk?" Janine's laughter grates on his ear a bit; luckily, she can't see him grimace. "You haven't seen the heels my boss makes me wear. All the one-way streets seem designed to add to the taxi cost, but when I've got sore feet it's worth every penny. Text me the address tomorrow. London’s still a bit of a mystery to me.”

“Right. See you tomorrow evening. Bye.”

_Is it really going to be this easy?_ Case work where he has a legitimate excuse to dance is a prospect just too good to be true...


	2. First Dance: Waltz

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Waltz  
> A dance in which a couple moves in a regular series of three steps, in ¾ time with a strong accent on the first beat and a basic pattern of step – side step – close. The waltz is of quite ancient origins, predating the 1600s. If you are dancing this then you are most likely to be one or more of the following: a) upper class and wealthy; b) in love with your partner; or, c) making other people jealous.

Irina puts her hands onto Janine’s shoulders and gently pulls them back away from Sherlock. “The frame is the most important part of a waltz. It’s all about creating an elegant line. Separation of the two bodies at the top, close enough to touch at the bottom half. Otherwise, it won’t work." She pulls harder on Janine's shoulders. "Bend! Lean back. Let his arms extend. You are both tall enough to do justice to this.”

The Russian-born professional dancer steps back to survey the effect, and Janine reads amusement in her partner's grey-green eyes. Then, she feels the woman’s firm hand on the small of her back, shoving her hips forward. Startled, Janine is now much closer to Sherlock than she'd been at the wedding when they had briefly danced around the anteroom before John had arrived.

Irina is still not satisfied, and shoves Janine's back again. "Tilt your hips into his, tuck in your bum; your thighs have to touch, or you won’t be able to feel him signalling the steps until it’s too late.”

Janine could see the result for herself in the studio’s wall of mirrors.

The dance instructor behind her is frowning, now, as she reaches up and takes Janine’s head and re-positions it so she is leaning back even more. “Your neck…needs to be like a swan. Graceful, elegant. You look over man’s shoulder, not in eyes.”

“But that’s half the fun.” She can't miss the opportunity to tease. “I’m learning this so I can meet my future husband.”

Sherlock rolls his eyes.

This seems to perplex the Russian, but it does bring a laugh from the man who is standing beside the music machine. “Irina thinks of dancing as making war, not love.”

Janine had been surprised to find Sherlock was not alone when she arrived at the dance studio. A couple were doing an amazing routine as she had peered around the door; at first, she assumed she’d got the wrong studio, until she heard Sherlock commenting: “Oh, now I understand — the whisk comes after the hesitation and reverse turn.”

“Da.” Next, there was a stream of what Janine guessed was Russian.

Her boss has contacts in Russia, with whom she has to arrange appointments for important telephone calls, but unlike him, she doesn't speak the language.

Upon spotting her, Sherlock introduced the dancers. “Irina and Masha are professional ballroom dancers. I thought you might benefit from seeing what it is supposed to look like. John and Mary’s efforts at the wedding might have given you a false impression.”

“Oh, Sherlock — I thought they looked sweet.”

Sherlock gave her a rather tight smile. “For two people who had never danced before, a slow waltz sufficed. And I only did four short lessons with John; Mary was too busy. It’s easier if at least one of the pair knows what they are doing.”

Masha puts on a piece that Janine recognises: Norah Jones singing “Come Away with Me.” 

“Now, watch carefully.”

Sherlock takes the Russian woman, blonde and willowy, in his arms, and the pair begin to dance.

The music isn’t fast but the swirling turns, the footwork as Sherlock moves with Irina — it looks amazing, as if they are one being. At the corner of the room, Irina leans back, Sherlock's arms giving her all the balance she needs to extend her right leg high with a pointed toe, shaping an elegant pose at just the right point in the music. Sherlock moves around her elegantly and then they are off again, a pattern of turns, rising and falling in perfect time to the music.

Irina’s form-fitting black trousers and top make Janine feel self-conscious. She isn’t in the same league — a little too much Chardonnay and too little exercise has softened her edges, and she’s wearing leggings under a rather baggy sweatshirt. Her only concession to glamour is the pair of strapped heels that Sherlock had insisted she buy. His text had been specific: _heels must be one inch or more, not block, strapped across the top of the foot so they don't fall off._ They are still in the box of the dance shoe shop she'd visited on her lunch hour today. Janine likes heels, but these can't compete with the black two-and-a-half-inch open-toed heels that Irina is dancing in as if she'd been born in them.

Masha is watching them, too, and Janine decides to flirt. “Doesn't it make you jealous to see your partner dancing with another man?”

He laughs — a big, throaty Russian laugh. “Irina is my _dance_ partner. Nothing more. I wouldn’t go anywhere near that one’s bed — she’d eat me alive and spit out the bones. We make a great couple on the dance floor — but that’s as far as I want to go.”

She sizes up the tall, handsome Russian. “Professional dancer — is that a good livelihood?”

This time he looks more carefully to see if she is teasing. Then he shrugs. “Compared with no job in Russia, dancing here in London pays well. But it’s a young man’s game. The money is in getting work on a West End show or maybe cruise ship work. We have big audition in Southampton next week; the Aurora is looking for instructors. The TV show makes all the old women want to be a celebrity for a night. You are a useful example of the novices we will have to work with. Cruise ladies like a private lesson and pay well.”

Janine’s attention drifts back to Sherlock and the Russian. “I’ll never be able to do that.” Irina has done a complicated move, stepping elegantly first to one side of Sherlock, and then to the other, as he turns on his heel. She realises what looks odd: neither dancer is smiling. Both have a look of intense concentration instead. A series of complicated arm movements ends with Irina standing with her back to Sherlock, leaning into his arms just as the final bars of the music end.

Sherlock has obviously heard Janine’s commentary. “Not at first, but you’ll be surprised how easy it comes if you have patience with yourself and are willing to put the practice in.”

He comes over to her and holds his arms up for her to take the proper position. “The basic waltz is simply three steps, one-two-three. If you listen to the music, you’ll hear it. Count, if it helps.” He steps in until their thighs touch. “Feel which of my legs is going to go forward, and step back on that leg.” She feels his right leg start to move and as he steps forward, she naturally steps back on her left. “The key is to keep the same upper body position, and to follow my lead.”

His hand is surprisingly warm. “Now step to the side.” He gives her a firm steer with his shoulders, and then her right foot is moving without her having to think about it. “Now bring the left foot together to the right.”

She does and starts to giggle.

He releases her, looking slightly confused. "How is that funny?"

"Not funny, _fun_."

Irina takes over. Sternly, she commands, “Stand behind me. Now we _shadow dance_. Match my feet; step back as I do.” Janine does, mirroring the Russian's moves as she counts the basic beat.

Janine tries to imitate the steps as they reverse the entire length of the studio. Irina keeps counting, but then breaks off to bark, “Stop looking at feet!”

Janine tries to focus on Irina’s feet instead of her own, counting under her breath.

The Russian stops but does not turn around, and snaps, “My feet, your feet — doesn't matter. Don’t look down. Look up, look elegant.” She strikes a pose: arm up, fingers splayed elegantly across the back of her head, radiant smile.

Janine thinks Irina looks like a ballerina. She mutters under her breath, “Woman, have you got eyes in the back of your head?”

Irina snorts. “ _Nyet_ — but I do know how to use the mirrors. Use them yourself, if helps to stop looking down.” She extends a right arm to point at the mirror, and Janine sees herself. The contrast is more than a little painful. The Russian stands like a dancer — immaculate posture, poised on her toes, calf muscles taut.

She is elegance personified, and Janine sighs, staring at her own form in the mirror in dismay. “Maybe this isn’t such a good idea. I’m not exactly graceful.”

The two men have been talking quietly in the corner in Russian, but Sherlock breaks it off and comes over to her. “No one is graceful at the start. Too many things to keep track of — posture, where your head is, what your feet are doing. My first partner told me it was like dancing with a donkey. The two-legged ass was his nickname for me.”

“He? You learned to dance with a _guy_?”

“I learned at school, an all-boys school. Everyone had to learn the woman’s steps as well as the man’s. Actually, it helped a lot. The older boys who had learned the basics could teach the younger ones, and it teaches you a lot about leading to have experienced being led. It’s very hard to learn the way John and Mary did, both partners being beginners. Though Mary may well be a much better dancer than she pretended to be, because she didn’t want to discourage John.”

“How long did it take you to get from pantomime donkey to the twinkle-toes wheeling Irina around the floor like a pro?”

“I was at school for three years and learned ballroom dancing for one term per year. It beat football or rugby any day.”

Irina interrupts. “Studio costs per hour. Talk later; dance now.”

Masha smirks. “See what I mean? Irina takes lessons _seriously_ , even with a beginner.”

The rest of the hour passes surprisingly quickly. Janine has to do her three steps backwards the length of the studio half a dozen more times, after which she practices with both Masha and Sherlock.

Irina insists on that: “Important not to get too used to one partner, especially if you want to dance with lots of different men. Sasha says that is why you want to learn, to meet men.”

For a moment, Janine is flummoxed. She looks at the big Russian to ask, “Who’s Sasha?”

He shakes his head. “Not me, I’m _Masha_. She means Holmes.”

“Ooh — does she have a _thing_ for him?”

The blond man takes her in his arms and starts to count _one-two-three_ as he steers her about the floor. “ _Nyet_. He helped her. Sad story — she was sixteen, lied to by agent in Ekaterinburg who said come to UK to dance. She ended up in bad business. Holmes broke the sex trafficking network, and the girls—well, he knew people who could help.”

Janine watches the blonde woman execute a complicated side-step and pose, as Sherlock elegantly leans over her to give her back the support she needs to extend the position.

To Masha, she says, “Sounds like he’s a bit of a knight in shining armour, then.”

oOo

Using Janine to get at her boss comes easily to Sherlock. After all, that’s what a sociopath does — manipulates people. He's worked hard on cultivating the people skills that one expects from such a personality disorder; it's one of his best disguises ever. The two years as Lars Sigurson had been one extended exercise of using social skills to wiggle his way into situations where he could hobble Moriarty’s network. Some of that needed the Norwegian to be charming to both women and men, so Sherlock had adopted the roles needed without thinking much about it. Hiding in plain sight by being someone else? He’s been doing that since he was a child. It doesn't change one iota of who he is, just makes it harder for others to notice his neuroatypicality.

The wedding had been interesting in that Janine liked flirting with him, but she apparently believed he wasn’t 'that sort,’ whatever that means. _Mary must have warned her._ At first, he was grateful that she wasn't pursuing him. Social occasions are hard enough; trying to evade the clutches of a young woman interested in sex would have forced him into a defensive rudeness which could have had consequences for the wedding.

Mary had taken him aside one time when the three of them had only just started planning the event. She’d sent John down to Mrs Hudson’s, to get some indication of whether she'd be bringing Mister Chatterjee, or not. As soon as he was gone, Mary had said quietly, “I know John has been telling you about what being best man involves, but I need to give you a heads up on something I doubt he will have mentioned: the bridesmaids, and the maid of honour.”

Sherlock had shrugged. “Women who form part of your entourage. I understand. I can handle that.”

She smiled at him. “No, you can’t. You haven’t the faintest idea. The church service is one thing, and all those books and websites you’ve been looking at talk about speeches and behaviour at the reception. But the party after is whole different thing. You are not, by definition, a _party animal._ ”

He'd frowned at her, appalled by the idea. “Are you saying I have to be?”

Mary had just laughed. “John and I want you to be there. You can’t just...skulk off into the dark. That means traditionally, you need to dance with the Maid of Honour.”

“Who is she, then, this ‘chosen one’ of your friends?”

“Janine Hawkins. I haven’t known her for all that long, but I like her; she's a useful contact. It’s important to me that you help her have a good time. That means not ignoring her. Can you do that for me?"

He'd thought about it. “I suppose.”

“She won’t bite, Sherlock. I’ll tell her to not try to drag you into bed.” She watched as his eyes widened in alarm. “Janine’s in a hurry. That body clock of hers wants babies and a husband to provide for them. Makes her a little predatory when a good-looking, unattached man walks in.”

He had made no effort to hide his alarm.

“So try not to make a scene. I don’t want to have to rescue her from the ladies' room after you’ve let fly one of your deductive counter-attacks. It’s my wedding, and I don’t want to spend it trying to deal with someone else's drama.”

He’d been relieved when Janine turned out to be someone to whom he didn’t have to be horrible. There had been more than enough dramas at the wedding to keep him occupied.

oOoOoOoOo

Watching her stumble about, trying to mirror Irina's steps backwards, Sherlock's memory stutters sideways, conjuring an old image: John, trying to do the same steps, following him as they moved from the living room into the kitchen and then down the hall towards his bedroom. Since the hallway has no mirrors, Sherlock had been forced to rely on the sound of John's shoes on the wooden floorboards to estimate how far off his attempts were. In some ways, it had been a relief that way; it had been much harder to avoid looking at John while they danced in hold. The more he had looked, the more it had been difficult to control the emotional turmoil that had been with him ever since he'd left Hartswood Manor*. He knows he's depressed, and he knows why.

The wedding waltz had been excruciating. He had watched John and Mary dancing at the wedding, their bodies separated by the same gap which Sherlock had been obliged to keep between him and John when he was teaching him the steps. Anything closer would have been an intimacy that makes his body ache at the memory of being not close enough to feel him. Hands and shoulders were okay. In their time of sharing the flat, of working cases together, that sort of contact, skin-to-skin was within the acceptable bounds of what heterosexual men would tolerate. The adrenaline rush of excitement on a case could engender the sort of comrade-in-arms, sportsmen-together contact without raising eyebrows or threatening anyone's sexual identity.

Seeing John mirror that distance he'd been taught had been the blow that had broken Sherlock's hold on his emotions. As he'd put the violin down and left the envelope on the music stand, he'd gone down on the dance floor to say his goodbye, only to deduce the final nail in the coffin, Mary's pregnancy.

Depressing as it is, Sherlock knows he has to keep away from John when they return from the honeymoon. Whoever it was who had put John into the bonfire is still out there; the pygmy's blowpipe and dart had been another attempt. Sherlock had crushed Moriarty's network trying to protect John, but it hadn't stopped the threats on his life. He's spent hours, days, in his Mind Palace trying to suss out who or what the threat is, but no answers have yet emerged. In desperation, he's had to resort to chemical stimulation. The cocaine helps his thought processes enough for him to start linking things to Mycroft and whatever the hell was going on in Georgia, but the brainwork is knackering. The answer is there—so close he can almost touch it, hovering on the edge of his conscious mind. Infuriatingly difficult to pin down, yet his intuition is telling him that there is a link to Lady Smallwood's case. He doesn't know how or why, but it's there, somewhere. Her husband’s indiscreet letters are going to lead to something _more._

To get to that _more_ , he's been using cocaine to work on the evidence board in his Mind Palace. So long as he can delay his come-down, he can spend his evenings with Janine, dancing and trying to get her to trust him enough to let him into Magnussen's office and flat. The work is the only thing keeping his depression at bay. When he and Janine part tonight, he will vanish to a convenient bolt hole with enough heroin to sleep off the cocaine. It's his routine these days. When he wakes up and returns to Baker Street, the cycle will start all over again. As he watches Janine following Irina, Sherlock is confident that he can manage the dancing. It's a known fact that dancing releases endorphins, and right now he can do with all of the natural chemical help he can get.

oOoOoOoOo

After the hour is up, Janine says she is hot and sweaty, and goes to the studio's locker room for a quick shower.

Waiting in the foyer, Sherlock takes the opportunity to talk to Masha and Irina, who is determined to get an answer to the obvious question he’s been dodging.

"Who is she? Why do you waste time teaching beginner? If you want a good dance partner, let me introduce you to some of my friends. They won't step all over you."

"It's for a case."

"Oh!" Irina's surprise is followed by a breathless, "Does she know that?"

"Of course not."

Masha looks a bit stern. "Be careful, my friend. Unattached women make a habit of falling in love with the man who teaches them to dance."

Irina laughs at her dance partner's suggestion. "Not him; Sasha is not her type."

The thought disturbs Sherlock. He needs to learn more about Janine’s boss, gain access to his office. That means keeping Janine not just entertained but intrigued enough to let her guard down, so that he can retrieve Lord Smallwood's letters. As useless as he is at this romance game, he's certain he can get Janine to reveal more if he can keep up the disguise.

"So, what is her _type_? How do I get her to like me?" He asks in a tone carefully schooled to sound casual.

"For the case, yes? You need this?"

He nods.

"Right. Lessons for beginner. Once she goes, you, Masha and I drink vodka and we teach you how to act like you love a woman."

"Спасибо.*"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Spasibo" = thank you very much  
> * For those of you who are struggling to identify the Mystery Man, S&ILS, the Georgians, the reasons for Sherlock's depression and whatever else seems to be going on with Mycroft that means he isn't around, head off to my stories in the Magpies series: Two for Joy, Three For a Girl and Four For a Boy. Or you can just ignore all that and take my word for it—Sherlock is really, really stressed out as well as strung out on drugs right now, with normally snooping Big Brother not around to interfere.
> 
> Playlist:  
> I imagined Janine arriving at the studio and seeing Masha and Irina dancing to [Faded](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=nxoawVS-A8o)
> 
> [ this one](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=EMUgFMcx8Rc&fbclid=IwAR2_ouH7szvstbWBeuCFRh-qntdTA3nJ_41syKzPYSYrmRhElR-Mxb2oxt4)   
> Then she and Sherlock count their one-two-threes to Nora Jones' [Come Away With me](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=O1wswB-763c)
> 
> And of course, let's not forget John and Mary's [Waltz](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LcGFZyEmPys) . It's way too slow—"rather lugubrious" as Silvergirl says —and I detect more than a hint of melancholy in it, but Sherlock would have written it to ensure that John could actually dance to it. 
> 
> Lastly, my Watson and I dance proper ballroom stuff. Did an evening class once a week for about six years. When we started, his nickname for me was the "two-legged donkey". Now, waltz is our "go-to" to get ourselves back into the swing of things when we haven't danced in public for months (or thanks to Covid, more than a year).


	3. Second Dance: Foxtrot

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The foxtrot is a smooth, progressive dance characterized by long, continuous flowing movements across the dance floor in 4/4 time with a mixture of quick and slow steps. In radio communication it is also a code word representing the letter F. In US army slang the phrase bravo foxtrot is a polite reference to the concept of ‘Buddy fucker”, i.e., someone who tends to give their friends the shit-end-of-the-stick, someone who abuses their colleagues for selfish reasons.

"Janine."

She jumps, her fingers slipping on the keyboard and gobbledegook appears on the screen.

"I wish you wouldn't creep up on me like that." As soon as the words are out, she knows she's made a mistake. Her boss has a thing about obedience and deference.

He looms from behind her chair, smirking. "Should I announce my presence more forcefully, _A rúnsearc*_?” Magnussen bends down to stroke a finger down her cheek, before giving it a flick that stings.

Janine lifts her hands from the keyboard, and puts them down in her lap, keeping her eyes averted from the malicious glint in his eyes. _You want me to back down? Okay, I can do that. It’s not like I have an alternative._

It's something that she's learned, a skill acquired over the two years she's been working for Magnussen. When she'd got the job offer, it had surprised her. She's good as a PA, but there were more qualified, more experienced candidates. The head-hunter had been delighted; a fat commission inspired her to talk up the job to the point where Janine accepted even before she'd met her future boss, who had been in Australia at the time. The salary was fantastic, the perks great, and working for one of the world's leading media moguls would look good on any future job application.

She'd realised her mistake when he'd returned and told her too much about herself that had never been on any CV. Her father had been a Provo, a high-ranking military figure in the Provisional IRA, who had been turned by the British Government. If the truth ever came out, he'd be murdered. Half of the money she’s making in London is going into a savings account to buy her parents a new identity and a new life in Canada someday. Until then, she'll be at Magnussen's mercy. He gets off on it, bullying her into accepting the worst sort of abuse, because he knows she won't complain or resign. Tormenting her is part of the man's daily ritual.

"Have you heard from Mary Watson yet?"

Janine shifts her weight in the secretary's typing chair. "No. They're still on honeymoon."

Magnussen shakes his head slowly from side to side. "How many times have I told you not to lie to me?"

_Damn._

He flicks her cheek again, this time with more ferocity. She can't stop the squeak of both pain and frustration that emerges from her mouth.

When she's swallowed her immediate instinct to smack him back —a career limiting move if there ever was one—she manages to say "Give me a break. She got back two days ago. She hasn't phoned." Her face is burning, from embarrassment at being caught in the lie as well as from the flicking finger.

"Better…but not good enough. Try phoning her. Get back in touch; the woman could prove useful to me."

"Why?! For all these months, you have never told me _why_. I've done everything you've asked of me. She's a receptionist nurse at a GP surgery, for God's sake. Why did you want me to befriend her?"

He laughs, but the smile that follows is predatory. "You are easily fooled. That one is no sweet little housewife. How are you getting on with the Consulting Detective these days?"

"He dances well; he's teaching me to dance."

"Are you seducing him yet? Come on, woman; this is what I told you to do."

Now it is Janine's turn to shake head. "He's not like that. Sweet, naïve, not really my type at all. He's not the sort of man who jumps into the sack on the first date."

"Make him into one then. I need you to make John Watson jealous."

"Why? What game are you playing?"

He chuckles. "Pawns don't demand to know the King's strategy. You do what you are told, or you pay the consequences. I want him besotted with you."

After two weeks of dance lessons, Janine knows this is unlikely to ever happen. She's come to appreciate Sherlock's gentlemanly treatment. "He's a good kisser," she volunteers, hoping this will get her boss off her case. Her assessment is based on a very small sample, starting with a goodnight peck on the cheek that first time in Covent Garden. She's advanced that into more meaningful kisses on the mouth, but has been taking the lead. She's doing the best she can, but Janine knows that if she overplays it, pushes too hard or throws herself at Sherlock, that will be the end of things.

"Have you got to his phone yet?"

"He keeps it locked. I don't know the password."

"Have you met his brother yet?"

"Mike? No. Sherl speaks to him on the phone and they argue a lot, but I've not met him."

"Do you know anything, _A leanbh_?"

His use of the Irish makes her flesh creep. She's not _his child_ , but to protect her father, she will do what she has to do. "I know that when Sherlock is really pissed off at his brother, they speak some foreign language. I know that John Watson hasn't called since he got back. And there was no contact during the honeymoon either. Sherlock is ignoring him, or John is ignoring Sherlock; hard to say which."

"Tsk, tsk…that will not do, Miss Hawkins. Go, make contact. Push them back together. Make Watson jealous. Or you will have to deal with the consequences."

OoOoOoOoOo

"Slow, slow, quick, quick, Heel turn, slow, slow…"

The music is a classic: Ella Fitzgerald's “Blue Moon.”

Irina and Masha have demonstrated the steps for Janine; now it is Sherlock's turn with Janine. The foxtrot seems to be flummoxing her more than usual. She's not the quickest learner—slow, slow is supposed to be followed by a noticeable increase in speed. Her heel turn needs to provide the pivot for their forward movement but she keeps making mistakes. Sherlock is trying to keep his impatience in check. As much as he likes having an excuse to dance, the lessons are beginning to eat into the time he has to insinuate himself into Janine's good graces.

" _Nyet_ ," Irina barks, as Janine comes out of the heel turn, stepping forward on her right foot, placed between Sherlock's two feet. "On _outside_! Start again."

Sherlock releases Janine from the hold position and they walk back to the side of the room. "It takes practice," he says, trying to keep his frustration from showing.

He eyes the clock on the studio wall, relieved that they only have another ten minutes. Time is not on his side. It's been sixteen days since the wedding, ten since Lady Smallwood's case had arrived on his doorstep. John should be home by now, but he’s not texted to say so.

No matter. Sherlock can move forward on his own to recover Lord Smallwood's letters; in fact, it's best that he does. No reason to involve John lest that expose him yet again to whoever put him in the bonfire—a case which he still hasn't solved. At least he can make progress on the Smallwood case. After a glass or two of wine, Janine’s been surprisingly forthcoming about her employer, for whom she has little affection.

"Then why do you stay?" he had asked last night over dinner at Angelo's. Angelo had wanted to know where John was, and on being told had returned with a candle and a sad smile. Janine had seemed to see the candle as some validation of her status, and chattered away happily about what a slave-driver Magnussen was.

"No pain, no gain" is her motto. Apparently, the man is a nightmare boss, but the pay is so attractive that Janine is willing to accept it. "Also, it's great on the CV. Surviving a boss like that means a lot in the job market. Another couple of years, another CEO job, and I will have saved enough to afford a place in town and one of my own in the country. Then I can find a husband and it's goodbye London; hello, married life." 

Over dinner, he'd asked as many questions as he thought he could get away with, particularly about Magnussen's lifestyle and movements. While he picked at the antipasto plate, she'd dished the dirt. "Absolute workaholic. He’s a machine: no wife, no girlfriend, no dating. His social calendar would stun most people, but I think he's only invited because people are scared _not_ to invite him. Ascot, Henley, Wimbledon—best seats in the house, but he's only there to work the crowd and twist a few arms. Totally focussed, the man. It's tough when he lives upstairs from the office; expects me to show up any old time it suits him. He told me that _pi_ _ed-à-terre_ is French for 'foot on the ground', but I swear it means his foot on my neck."

He'd asked her about Magnussen's proper residence, and whether she'd been to Appledore.

"Lordy, the man's obsessive about that place. I've only been once. It's freaking enormous but he's got two, just _two_ people there—a creepy Japanese guy with a grey ponytail who never says a word and then some woman who organises the cleaning and does the cooking when he's there, which isn't often, to be honest."

Casually, Sherlock asks "Did he show you the vaults under the house?"

She shakes her head. "Vaults? No, I didn't see anything like that."

Sherlock has seen the floorplans of the house, liberated from the architect's computer system a few days ago. His favourite hacker Jax, now at Imperial College studying cyber security, had delivered them. There is definitely a large basement storage area accessed by a stairway.

"The lower ground floor, where the pool is…" he offers to encourage her to try to remember.

"He swims, yeah. Every day, even here in London. Has a membership at the Carpathian club, buys a whole hour of the pool all to himself starting at 6.30 in the morning. It's sacrosanct; can't schedule meetings for then."

"Breakfast meetings?"

"Sometimes. But he's always flying in and out of London, and a lot of his meetings are in the corporate jet. His diary management and travel arrangements keep me busy, I tell ya. All hours of the night and day; he never thinks that I might be otherwise engaged."

Irina had told him that he needs to commiserate with Janine, make her feel that he's on her side, so he had tried to do so, putting on a sympathetic smile, "It must put a damper on your social life. Shame: a woman like you, who knows how to enjoy herself, you shouldn't be chained to her desk."

She'd smirked as Angelo delivered a plate of pasta _amatriciana_ to her, and she poured more Chianti Classico into her wine glass. "First time I've been out to dinner since Mary’s wedding. A girl could get used to this, Sherlock Holmes. You're making me reassess what I thought about you."

Had she been flirting? He's no judge of women's behaviour, but Janine's reaction and the good night kiss she'd taken from him when he'd poured her into the taxi somewhat the worse for having consumed the entire bottle, suggest that he is making headway. Irina's advice seems to be working. After their two dance lessons last week, dinner, wine, a kiss on the doorstep last night.

Tonight, after the lesson he will ask her back to Baker Street for coffee. He needs to quicken the pace. Perhaps he can get her to talk more about Magnussen's forward diary, and the security arrangements. He needs to know when he can break in and take a good look around for those letters.

He takes up position with Janine in hold, waiting for the music. As Ella sings _Blue moon, you knew just what I was there for_ , he leads her into the first sequence _._ The lyric reminds him that he is here for the case, so he will have to be patient when she fluffs the footwork.

This time, Janine manages the half turn on her heels and her right foot steps out alongside his own right foot, allowing him to finish the turn, positioning her right hip into contact with his own as the next sequence of steps starts.

"Better. _Again_." Irina points to the starting point.

"Come in closer," he whispers, bringing his right thigh into contact with her left one. He can feel the tension in her body, so he gives a reassuring smile as he says "Relax; don't overthink it." When they come out of the heel turn as the singer continues _You heard me saying a prayer for_ and then without further mishaps, he steers Janine through _Someone I could really care for._

As they approach the corner, he starts to turn his shoulders; she misses the cue, so when he steps she is off balance, and loses the rhythm completely.

"DAMN. Sorry, I'm just useless."

"You're not useless. You're _learning._ "

She smiles ruefully. "Maybe once in a blue moon, I won't make a mess of it."

He finds a patient smile from somewhere that manages to placate her, as they take up position again.

oOoOoOoOo

_Quick, quick, slow, slow._

The choice of dance tonight had been appropriate; after the rush to get the most out of the hour with Irina and Masha, they stop at a tapas bar for a quick bite before he proposes coffee back at the flat. The reality is proving to be tedious. Service is abysmally slow, the music loud, the crowd noisy and annoying. When a glass of chilled Fino sherry eventually arrives with three small dishes of food he does not recognise, Sherlock tries to stifle his dismay.

Too late; she's seen it and is smiling at him. "Not a fan of Spanish cuisine then?"

Janine almost has to shout to be heard over the music and noise, leaning over their tiny table in such a way as to show off her cleavage. She's been playing with her hair, too, while they've been waiting. It seemed an odd thing to do, but Irina had explained that it was part of the flirting ritual that he needs to know. He's supposed to respond to it with a compliment, but is trying hard to find something that will sound genuine.

Not for the first time, he reflects that his own experience of sexual contact with men involved very little of this foreplay. His one and only experience of a real relationship gives him only a few pointers; he and Victor had been friends and flatmates first, which he does not have time for now. That makes him think of John, and he has to look down at the table for a moment, lost in regret that he had not made the best use of the time they'd had. While taking on Moriarty's network, the idea that there would be time to explore that possibility when he returned to London had kept him going through the darkest moments. The cruel joke had been on him; John had not waited but found a better choice, a woman able to deliver the normal life that Sherlock can only assume is his preference these days. Whatever he'd had with John—real and potential— was gone forever.

"Sherl? You look sad. You okay?"

He has to avoid cringing at how she is mangling his name; it's something he's detested all his life. He plasters on a bright smile and reaches for one of the scripts that Masha and Irina had suggested. "Not easy to have a conversation here, and that's a shame because I enjoy talking to you."

He pokes at the tentacled sliver of pale octopus encased in some sort of brown sauce before giving up. One bite is enough to convince him that the texture is utterly revolting. Putting his fork down Sherlock smiles and shakes his head. "I prefer to spend time with you, without all this distraction." He has to say this loudly enough to be heard, which earns him a glare of two from the occupants of the tables on either side of them.

Sherlock has been reading internet sites on courting techniques. Janine has to be convinced that he is someone to be trusted, someone for whom she feels enough attraction that it will be worth taking a risk for, even if she might be fired if her role in helping him is discovered. Irina and Masha's advice had been handy, but he needs to keep Janine focused on him for a little while longer without actually having to end up in a bedroom. He’s a good actor but he knows that his transport will fail him, once he is naked. He's never been aroused by a woman, and it will kill Janine's interest, as she has made clear.

Somehow, he has to spin this out, build up enough affection that she will allow him into Magnussen's office when the man is out. Not easy to accomplish, because Janine seems to be frightened of her boss in a way that she is not admitting to him. Is the man is somehow blackmailing her, too? Or is he a lecherous boss? Lady Smallwood had been clearly distressed by him: _"Loathsome creature, pawing me with his sweaty hands,"_ she had told him when she sat, shaking with anger in the flat.

If Janine has been subjected to similar abuse of power and inappropriate sexual advances, then Sherlock must handle her with gentlemanly decorum. That suits his preferred _modus operandi_ in any case.

oOoOoOoOo

He thumbs the switch on the kettle down, and opens the cupboard that now houses the coffee and the cafetiere. John had always been willing to use instant coffee so kept it next to the kettle, but Sherlock prefers proper coffee even if it takes more time. The ritual of grinding the beans gives him time to settle his nerves. Having managed to get Janine into the flat, he has to struggle to stay in character. 221b has always been his sanctuary, where he does not have to be anything other than what he is, so pretending here gives him a moment of acute discomfort.

It's all well and good, the likes of Irina and Masha giving him girlfriend advice, but it had been _theory_. Practice is something else, and when it comes to women, he’s had very little of that. From observing others, he knows what is expected of him— the easy familiarity between men and women who are more than friends, crossing the barriers to the touching, the physical closeness—but none of that comes naturally to him. Even if he wasn't…what he is…the only real attraction he has ever felt is towards men.

Not that he can't fake everything except the act of physical consummation. As he pours the boiling water into the cafetiere, Sherlock takes some comfort from the fact that he has been a master of disguise for most of his life. Starting with his mother patiently teaching him social scripts when he was seven, Sherlock has learned how to expend the energy needed to act a role, to blend in, to do what is necessary for a case. On one level, he takes real pride in his ability to "pass" as more or less normal. On a deeper level, he hates the very fact of having to do so. Masking is exhausting. Stifling everything he is costs him immense mental energy and leaves him limp afterwards, needing to retreat from the world and re-establish himself as who and what he really is.

But needs must, when the truth would be too painful. Janine would run screaming if she knew what he is really like. Mycroft knows and John has more than an inkling. This, though…this requires a whole different level of disguise from anything he’s done before. Seducing a woman is going to take a BAFTA-winning performance; the thought makes him draw a deep breath, trying to rein in his anxieties.

It hasn't been easy. Ever since the Watson wedding, Sherlock has been burning the candle at both ends. He works all day in his Mind Palace, using his mental evidence board to go through for the hundredth time all the tiny pieces that join up to a massive, decades-long conspiracy headed by an unknown person; he’s mentally exhausted when it comes time to work on the Smallwood case. With Janine’s job, that has to happen in the evenings, just when he'd prefer to be comatose on the leather sofa.

 _Get a grip._ As he pushes the plunger in the cafetiere, Sherlock chastises himself. He's faced more than his share of murderers and psychopaths; talked his way into and out of trouble; destroyed one of the world’s most dangerous criminal networks; survived battles requiring hyperbolic intelligence and physical exertion. Acting fascinated by a woman, and enticing her into trusting him, cannot be any harder.

 _Once more unto the breach…_ "How do you take your coffee?"

"Black, no sugar. I'm sweet enough."

With his back to her, she can't see him rolling his eyes. Sherlock fills two mugs, puts two teaspoons of sugar in his own and delivers the coffee to the little Indian table beside John's chair, taking his own seat opposite. If it feels odd to see her in John's chair, at least it hurts less than seeing it empty.

As she sips, Janine's gaze is flitting about the room. "Well, this is… a bachelor pad, for sure."

Cautiously, he responds, "Well, I am not married or living with anyone, so I suppose the description is appropriate, but are you are giving a different meaning to the phrase?" He hates this sort of guessing game. Is she being flirtatious or judgmental? It's like walking through a minefield. If he says something wrong, she will get annoyed and leave.

Janine smiles in a way that seems to be barely supressing laughter. "The décor is a riot. Like a Victorian on LSD." She points to the wall behind the sofa. "Three different wallpaper designs on the walls in this room, and the furniture is the most amazing collection of cast-offs. Absolutely _nothing_ matches. Then add in the chipped and worn paint, scuffed-to-hell-and-gone bare floorboards, and the clutter and general debris everywhere. How does it not give you a headache?"

He looks around in bewilderment. "I know this room. I know every item in it, every inch of space is indelibly imprinted on my mind. Every item has meaning to me. When I was away from London, this is what I remembered." He's absolutely not going to tell her that the memory was what he had clung to like a life-line, hoping that he would live long enough to come back to 221b. Or admit that when he had returned, it was missing the one thing he'd missed the most: John.

She grimaces. "It lacks a woman's touch."

"Mrs Hudson would take offence at that. The furnishings were here before I moved in. The _clutter_ , as you call it, is mine, I admit. Since no one lives here but me, I see no problem."

Her look is calculating. "I'm having trouble here, so help me out. Mary told me to leave you alone; that you were not the sort to head into bed with a bridesmaid. Yet you've taken me dancing and out for a meal twice and I am now in your sitting room, drinking a late-night coffee." Mischievously, she leans forward and asks, "What are your intentions, Sherlock Holmes?"

The word _intentions_ reminds him of the film that John had forced him to watch. (" _Surely you've heard of Jane Austen? Pride & Prejudice? You _are _English, aren't you? Sit down because you have to know this stuff. It's more important than the solar system."_ ) He realises that Janine is actually asking whether this is heading to friendship or sex. He stifles panic and decides it is time to deflect her libido.

"You told me that you're an old-fashioned girl. I'm old-fashioned when it comes to courtship. I prefer not to rush things. Friendship is a process of getting to know each other. It’s obvious by now that I enjoy spending time with you, isn't it?"

Encouraged by her nodding, Sherlock continues, "Friends to lovers, isn't that the thing these days? Tonight the coffee is not a prelude to me dragging you off into my bedroom to have sex. But who knows what the future might bring?" Irina had told him that building anticipation is an important part of courtship.

Janine cocks her head as if sceptical, and he panics inside. Has he just blown the whole thing. Has she worked out that he’s faking this?

Then she smiles. "You don't do this often, do you."

It's not a question. "No. Not for years."

"So, why now?"

He tries out what he hopes is a thoughtful expression. "Maybe John and Mary have shown me that being alone isn't my only option."

"Why me?"

He's looked for ways of scripting this so that it sounds plausible. "Because we have already met; we have a mutual interest in dancing, and it seems sensible to build on that. I can't say that I meet many potential girlfriends at crime scenes, given that most of the attractive candidates are either dead or the murderer."

To his relief, she laughs. "Yeah, I can't see you at a singles night. And as for policewomen… it would be a bit like a busman's holiday."

She raises her coffee cup in a mock toast. "Here's to something different."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Pronounced uh ROON-shark: Literally means “secret love” — a very passionate way of saying “beloved.” “A leanbh” (uh LAN-uv): literally means “my child.”
> 
> **In my universe, Sherlock's relationship with Victor Trevor happens at university (in line with ACD canon) For the story check out  
> [Extricate](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14504154/chapters/33508653)
> 
> and then [The Ex](https://archiveofourown.org/works/18239561/chapters/43155503)
> 
> Playlist: Ella Fitzgerald [Blue Moon](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dqwSde_eEv4)
> 
> And the foxtrot- it's the dance that my Watson and I really, really enjoy because the music is just wonderful. That step out of the heel turn is one that I still mess up occasionally.


	4. Third Dance: Salsa

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A type of Latin American dance music incorporating elements of jazz and rock. In Latin American cooking, salsa is a spicy tomato sauce. In street talk, salsa is a musical way to get a good looking girl's clothes off.

Nyet!" Irina wags her finger at Janine. " _Listen_ to the music! Three steps for every _four_ beats of music. You must pause."

The salsa is the first Latin dance they've tried, and she's just made a complete hash of the routine.

"Sorry." She leans into him and drops her head onto his shoulder. "I'm an idiot."

"It's a form of syncopation," he offers.

She rolls her eyes. "That doesn't mean anything to my feet, might as well be called exasperation."

"Not just feet. Arms, too!" Irina calls out.

Janine mutters, "Just to make everything even more complicated."

Irina barks out yet another command. "Start again, this time in open position."

Masha arrives next to the pair as Sherlock widens the gap between him as Masha explains to her, "Closed position is your hand just below his shoulder, his hand on your back. There's more space in the open position. It's a bit more forgiving for beginners. You're doing fine." Sherlock takes both of her hands in his. The Russian smiles and Janine's shoulders loosen a bit. She'd arrived in a foul mood and rather tense, grumbling about her boss being a bastard "Yet again".

Somehow the Russian's praise is a way to make her relax. Sherlock's brows furrow as he considers how that has happened, and whether he can learn it quickly enough to make a difference. John had said that he could always tell when Sherlock was faking it, and it is important to be convincing if his plans are to work.

Three weeks into his planning, and not enough to show for it. Although dancing had been how he'd coaxed her into seeing him again, the lessons are actually beginning to interfere with his attempts to get her to tell him what he needs to know. Tonight, for example; her bad mood at the start of the evening is being exacerbated by her frustrations as a beginner.

Masha tries to explain. "The key is to keep your weight split evenly over your feet. Keep your upper body level, and make your hips move; they are what gives the dance its rhythm. Watch what his hips do when he steps." As Sherlock shifts his right foot forward, Masha asks "Feel the gentle pressure through his hands? He's telling you which leg you need to move first."

As Janine obediently steps back, Irina comes in closer and repeats her earlier instruction. "Eight beats to complete basic steps, but don't step on all eight beats. Feet move on beats one, two, three, and then on four, _pause._ Five, six, seven, you move again, before _pause_ on eight. Do it now with Masha; I clap. Each clap, you step. No clap, you shout out 'pause' to me. Okay?"

Janine nods, as Irina uses her remote to begin the music again. It's perhaps the most popular salsa piece ever, _La vida es un carnaval_ sung by Celia Cruz in 1998. The words are in Spanish, the beat lively and clear; the rhythm signalled by percussionist striking a cow bell in time.

Sherlock can feel through her hands Janine is tensing up as she listens to the music.

"Wait for it," he whispers. He counts it down: "Five, six, seven," then "pause". When Irina claps, he moves his left leg forward. As Janine steps back with her own right leg, he murmurs, " replace."

Obediently, she lifts her left foot off the floor and without moving it forward, she replaces it back down as Irina claps the second time. "Now forward." Using his hands, he pulls her gently forward, so she steps with her right leg forward, and then on the third beat, again steps forward on the left. Irina calls out "Replace right" instead of a clap, just as Sherlock says "Pause".

He now pushes her hands a bit, to help her step back on the left leg as Irina resumes clapping. They repeat the back and forward movement a few times, each time Janine's growing more confident. It's important to Sherlock that she sees the dancing as fun; he needs her to keep her happy if his plot is going to succeed. If only she were better at it.

He keeps chanting "Back, replace, forward; forward, replace back." Janine is quite stiff, not moving her hips enough and stepping too firmly so the sound of her shoes clumps on the wooden floor, but at least her steps are more or less in time with the music now. She's counting out loud, "One, two, three, _pause_ , five, six, seven, _pause_."

"Toes. On _toes_ , not heels." Irina is shaking her head. "Weight over toes; no leaning back."

He commiserates. "It's hard at first. But the salsa is a party dance, a sexy dance. It should suit you." As the female singer belts out the song, he translates the Spanish lyrics, "Life is a carnival. Anyone that thinks that life is always cruel, they really need to know it's not like that."

She giggles, "They haven't met Irina."

He picks up the song again. "There are only some bad moments and then it all passes." He moves her through a half turn and then the sequence begins again. "Smile through all those hardships, and it will end right." He is rewarded by a smile from his partner.

Unfortunately, just as she smiles back at him, Janine forgets to replace, and steps forward on the wrong foot.

"Shit… my fault." She's not able to get back into the rhythm at all and stops.

Irina stops the music; "Again, from the beginning."

oOoOoOoOo

By the time the lesson is over, Janine's mood is even worse than when she'd arrived. When Sherlock takes her back to the flat for the newly established ritual of coffee, a cognac and a snog on the sofa, Janine is not feeling cuddly.

"Sorry. Just been a shite day, and now my feet are killing me. Tell the mortician that cause of death was Irina and those shoes. Lethal combination."

"This may help resurrect you." Sherlock pours the brandy into the glasses on the coffee table. "It's okay to be frustrated at first. I hope you won't get discouraged. I really want to continue; it's a great opportunity to keep seeing each other." 

"You are the best part of these evenings, that's for sure. And the dancing is fun when I get it right. All I want—no, what I _need—_ right now is for my feet to stop hurting."

"I can do something for that; give me your feet." Sherlock is relieved to have something other than kissing to do.

She kicks off the flats she'd worn after the lesson, and leans back against the arm of the sofa, depositing her feet in his lap.

He obliges, starting to massage around her heels and ankles. Within moments, Janine is almost moaning in pleasure, as Sherlock moves up from the ankles to her calves.

"Sherlock Holmes, you have marvellous hands. Where did you learn how to do this?" she murmurs, eyes closed, leaning back with what he decides is an expression of bliss.

He entertains her with a story of his case in one of London's up-market hotel spas. "Before John," he points out when he explains that it required him to deliver massages to well-heeled businessmen and wealthy tourists on their holidays. It had led him to a gang running three Turkish baths in London, all of which were pulling in significant revenues by laundering money along with the towels used in the steam rooms. "I spent a lot of time pummelling male flesh and massaging aching muscles."

Janine opens her eyes and gives him a calculating look. "Which side do you bat for, Sherlock Holmes? Am I wasting my time here?"

Without a moment's hesitation he lies through his teeth. "Think of me as someone who appreciates the finer specimens of the human race, irrespective of their gender." It's all part of the back-story he has invented for himself.

"A switch-hitter? That's not what Mary said." She sits up, dropping her feet back to the floor.

He struggles to grasp her use of the American baseball term. "John's probably told her that I am uninterested in anything sexual. It seems sensible not to correct their misconceptions."

"Why you sly fox. Otherwise, she might have seen you as a threat, given John's obvious adoration."

His disguise slips a moment and his brow furrows. "He doesn't _adore_ me; when he lived here, he was frequently very vocal in his criticism." The online advice tells him to reassure her that she's not threatened by a competitor. "John tells anyone and everyone that he is _not gay_ and we were not a couple. We were merely flatmates and colleagues, then friends. In his blog, he often makes jokes at my expense."

"Yet he chose you as his Best Man, surely that means something?"

Sherlock shrugs, hoping to convey a scepticism that Janine will see as raising his romantic potential. "As everyone tells me, marriage changes people. He's moved out, is working full-time and hasn’t worked a case with me for almost six weeks, so no longer a flatmate or colleague. He and Mary have been back from Morocco a week already and he hasn't made contact. His friendship seems linked to proximity."

"So, are you back on the market now?"

"Only for you."

"Why me?"

"You're special." It's a line he's read in a magazine; it's supposed to work.

"Well, I think you're special, too. Hallelujah. Let's celebrate." Janine takes the stopper out of the cognac bottle and pours herself another measure. When she catches Sherlock's side-eye, "Listen you, Mister Abstemious, alcohol is my drug of choice. You've got yours; I have mine. No judgment here."

How does she know about his drug use? He's extraordinarily careful not to show any signs of being high when he's in her presence. He's a practised user, one capable of micro-dosing cocaine to keep a come-down at arms' length. Sherlock is confident that nothing in his demeanour has revealed what he gets up to in the hours she is not around. So, if she knows, then could it be that Magnussen has been passing on information?

"Oh, Lordy." Janine rolls her eyes at his silence. "Come on; don't play the innocent with me. I do my research. All that stuff in the papers before you did your disappearing act? I know what I’m getting into here."

"Getting into?" he repeats, momentarily slipping back into an old habit of echolalia. It gives him enough time to process what she is saying, and decide that it is a step ( _finally_ ) in the right direction. "As in you and me, getting into a relationship?"

"Ah, the penny drops at last. You may have been able to deduce the hell out of the wedding guests, but you've taken your time realising that I’m interested in you." She puts her glass down and places her hand on the back of Sherlock's neck. "Did anyone ever tell you that you're a fine kisser? 'Cause if they haven't, they should have." She pulls him closer to her and they kiss.

He's spent ages watching tedious kissing scenes on YouTube to get the theory down. And it was remarkable how many of John's late-night crap television watching had involved kissing scenes, so he does have some idea of what to do. It seems to be working if the soft noises emerging from Janine are anything to go by. He's been getting better at this over the past few weeks. _Practice makes perfect._

When she breaks it off and drags in a deep breath, Janine's eyes are sparkling. "What say we decamp to your bedroom now?"

He puts on a sad face. "I've got an appointment tonight."

" _Tonight?"_ She sits back from him. "What kind of appointment?"

He sighs. "Criminals —they don't keep office hours, you know. The work I do means I spend a lot of what Mary calls _unsocial hours_ doing things that can't be done during daylight hours. It's why John is pretty much off-limits these days."

"How mysterious. And rather inconvenient for your love life."

He puts his hands gently around her face and draws her in for another kiss. "I've not had a love life before you. Between my criminals and your boss, we have to make the most of the time we've got."

oOoOoOoOo

"Good night, sweet prince."

His toes almost curl at Janine's misuse of the Shakespeare quote. Janine might think she's in a fairy tale, but the playwright had something else in mind when he wrote that line. It’s from the final scene of Hamlet, when the eponymous hero is dying in Horatio's arms. All those who plotted against Hamlet are also dead on the stage, victims who have fallen into their own traps. It's ironic, given that his own plot to use Janine is requiring him to act a role, a play within the play to get at Magnussen.

When he turfs her into the booked cab, Sherlock's smile lasts only as long as it takes to turn away from the kerb and head down the pavement in the opposite direction. The cognac he'd had to steady his nerves has kicked off nausea; perhaps that tentacled thing didn't agree with him. As he heads for a bolt hole to change clothes into yet another disguise, Sherlock decides that very little of this evening has agreed with him.

Tonight, he's going to try south London for a change. He has a dealer there he hasn't tapped up recently, and the man says there’s a convenient doss house not far from where John and Mary live. He might wander past their flat just to see if the lights are on.

oOoOoOoOo

South London has its own ambiance, swirling currents of commuters going to and from London to the outer suburbs shape the geography; railway tracks demand diversions of road and foot traffic, carve odd neighbourhoods into cul-de-sacs, places off the beaten path. Bridges and tunnels interrupt anyone looking for a straight line of travel. Away from the upmarket homes near the river, at night the thin veneer of trendiness goes home with the office workers. His loose-limbed saunter, cheap joggers and grubby hoodie is a necessary camouflage, even if it meant he'd had to wave cash at the cabbie to take him.

Well south of the Shard and east of Kennington, where the neighbourhoods of St Saviours, Elmington and Willowbrook come with the tell-tale add-on of "Estate", the area becomes a wild west of no fewer than eight competing gangs. Their battleground is pock-marked with the crumbling remnants of industrial London once serviced by the row housing of workers. Victorian slum clearance down here has left only the concrete monstrosities of sixties and seventies tower blocks and council housing that not even hard-up office workers will try to gentrify. These streets have become the canvas of the dispossessed, the frustrated, the left-behinds.

_Brilliant._ It's what he loves about London—the whole world is here in the space of ten square miles. From the high crimes and misdemeanours of Belgravian expatriates to the petty thievery and drug dealing of Streatham, London is a cesspit of crime. No one bothers trying to shift the graffiti down here, given that it will only be replaced the next night. As his cab passes one particularly vivid set of six-foot high tags, Sherlock knows that he has just crossed the boundary between Moscow17 and 37/OJB.

As the cabbie heads toward the western outskirts of Dulwich Village, suburban houses reappear, the graffiti vanishes. An aura of calm descends. He gets the taxi driver to drop him at the corner of Half Moon Lane.

Dulwich Village is boring. Perhaps it is yet another reason he has been reluctant to visit John while he's been living with Mary. When he walks up towards the white painted Edwardian terraced house that has been gentrified and split into four flats, Sherlock passes Mary's car parked four spaces away. The sight of the second-hand Audi A3 hatchback raises the same question that he'd thought but not asked out loud when he'd first visited. _How can a nurse receptionist working at a GP's surgery afford to buy a two bedroomed garden flat and a sporty car?_ Yet another mystery he is not allowed to deduce, not if he wants to keep his friendship with John alive.

The thought makes him wonder if asking the question would be enough to break their friendship for good. As soon as the idea takes shape, he wonders why the phrase is _for good_ when what it really means is permanently _._ What would be good about that? It might save John from being targeted again by whoever put him in the bonfire. It would therefore be good for John, but not for Sherlock. He's not ready, not yet. Going cold turkey on John Watson is too much to ask of himself right now. He'd rather stop the drugs.

_I'm addicted to John Watson._

As he approaches Mary's address, he feels the same compelling pull that had made him stop near Dulwich North station to pick up his supplies for tonight's session. Only the oblivion of drugs will give him respite from wanting, needing John tonight.

Looking over the iron railing in front of the house, he can see light spilling out from the bay window of Mary's sitting room onto the well below the pavement. The dark burgundy curtains aren't closed, but the Venetian blind slats are angled enough to give them privacy. His previous visits had shown him that the basement flat has two principal entrances, one from the street level, down a set of cast iron steps to the door to their sitting room, and then internal stairs going up higher to the main front door and hall shared by all the flats in the substantial house. There is another exit, too; one from the kitchen into the small courtyard behind the house where the bins are kept and the alleyway behind.

_Useful for a quick getaway_. Mary's choice whispers to him of her past, the one he has been forbidden to deduce by John.

He stands under the tall street lamp on the pavement, straining his ears for the sound of John's voice, but hears nothing other than the faint murmur of a television. Sherlock can visualise the pair of them, sitting next to each other on the sofa, with the tastefully patterned wallpaper behind. Planning the wedding often meant the journey was easier for him than the two of them. The visits had made him distinctly uncomfortable, because Mary's flat bears almost no evidence of John living there.

Sherlock feels the absence of every single thing that John has removed from Baker Street. His departure had torn the fabric of the universe of 221b; it no longer feels or looks like the place he'd carried around in his Mind Palace during the two years he'd been away. Yet, the new place where John lives seems devoid of those things.

A sense of profound loss grabs him by the throat, and he turns away, choking down his anger at the upsurge of useless emotions. Cocaine can do that to him, loosening his grip enough that he can't always fight off the waves of stupid sentiment. _Defective._ Why can't he get past this? John has made his choice; he's made his home with Mary, a woman who is burying a past he's not allowed to examine. John's boring job, his impending fatherhood, his nine-to-five suburban existence are not things Sherlock can change. He'd given up that right when he'd jumped from the roof.

Sherlock turns and strides away, determined to find the doss house that his dealer had told him about. _Safe haven near Herne Hill, mate. Lookout, comfy, off the police radar; ain't cheap but it suits a posh boy like you. Password is 'Arsenal sucks',_ the man had said, as he handed over supplies he 'guarantees' are medicinal quality _._

Sherlock expects that the heroin will be cut by fentanyl. Most is these days. He will have to adjust the dose down, more is the pity. Just looking at the Watsons' home has escalated his need from an urge into a compulsion, an ache pushing past a craving into a necessity. The banality of dealing with Janine and his frustration at the situation with John is eroding any last inhibitions.

When he finds the address, he deduces that the derelict three-storey building with its imposing pastiche of a classical pediment over the doorway had once been a Turkish bath. The glazed white tiles on the exterior walls are now dirty, the alley way to its front door is littered with rubbish. The hand-made _KEEP OUT/PRIVATE_ sign on the red door is no deterrent to him.

An anonymous youth in a grubby hoodie answers his knock, opens the locked door and glares suspiciously; Sherlock gives the password and hands over a twenty-pound note. The door opens onto a dingy ground floor. Half the ceramic tiles have been ripped from the walls, but the shape of the place is still impressive, with high ceilings. The entrance area is cavernous, too exposed. He's told to go upstairs; if he hears a shout from the lookout, it will be to warn of intruders. It's a sensible precaution; the watcher's there to ensure that if the police show up, enough warning will be given for users to shed their drugs. Being under the influence is one thing, having possession of unused drugs in any significant quantity quite another. Sherlock tries to avoid travelling with enough on him to warrant an arrest. The safest place for the drugs is up his arm.

The room he chooses has a high ceiling with windows whose tatters of curtains let in enough street light to be able to see what he is doing when he shoots up. If he had known such a comfortable location was available so close to where John and Mary live, Sherlock would have patronised the doss house before now. He wonders how long before gentrification swallows up this place, too.

He settles himself on one of the stained mattresses, resting on a cushion that allows him to put his back to the wall. The place might reek of mould, but otherwise it has all mod-cons. The mattress isn't jumping with fleas, and the cheap bedspread tossed on it covers more obvious bodily fluids. No wonder someone is charging admission. He decides it's worth the journey; for once, he doesn't mind the fact that it's so far from Baker Street. Putting distance between him and Janine is something to be welcomed at the moment.

Rummaging in his pockets, the question has to be asked now, at last: which is it to be, cocaine or heroin?

A cocaine-fuelled rush would allow him to return to his Mind Palace tonight to work on the Georgian case. He's also picked up a couple of the newest bath salts, for tomorrow. The dealer tried to palm him off with their current street names, but there is no way he will trust something called Blue Silk or Purple Wave without a bit of testing at home. Synthetic cathinones come in too many varieties these days, and he needs accuracy when he's using stimulants. He has become a master of hiding drug analysis behind obscure experiments, not that it really matters anymore, now that John is no longer living in the flat.

That thought is an unwelcome reminder, and the melancholy that had settled on him outside John's flat descends again, wrapping itself around his slumped shoulders and squeezing until his chest aches.

Heroin is the answer to this—a pause in the hectic dance of his life. Heroin promises immediate relief, a way to put all thoughts of what he has lost out of reach. Oblivion beckons, a few hours of respite from the pain that he's been carrying for weeks, months. _No, make that years_.

Sherlock reaches in his pocket for his lighter and spoon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am with Janine here. I find the salsa really difficult to get. I can manage the cha cha cha fine, but there is something about both the rumba and the salsa that my brain and feet cannot comprehend.
> 
> This is when I suggest all of my readers go do a slight detour. Read   
> [Watching Brief](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20310910/chapters/48151048) in the Got My Eye on You Series. and in two days' time I will be posting "The Big Issue" as the next chapter in that series, because events are covered there that explain a lot of what is happening when Sherlock is not with Janine.


	5. Fourth Dance: Quickstep

As Irina and Masha whirl around the floor looking like Ginger Rogers and Fred Astaire, Janine leans closer to Sherlock to ask quietly, "Just what do you get up to all night?"

"It's for a case."

"You're a workaholic, Sherlock Holmes. What's a girl to do?"

"Sleep? Isn't that what you are supposed to do at night?"

"Sleep, yes; just not _alone._ "

"Is my bed not to your liking then?"

"It would be all the better for having you in it."

"When I offered it to you, I was not presuming that we would share it."

Yesterday afternoon, Janine telephoned to put off their dance lesson. "Had an allergic reaction to all the new paint smells in my flat. Big mistake; didn't know it was going to happen. I'm dossing down for the night on a friend's sofa, but woke up this morning with a frightful backache. Worse still, she'd got company coming, so I'm on the scrounge for a new place. My landlord says the flat won't be done until next week, and then they start on the hallway and stairs; I'm looking at three weeks of puffy eyes, streaming nose and total inability to sleep."

Then she'd asked Sherlock an unthinkably forward question. "Don't suppose John Watson's old bedroom is available?"

"I'm using John's room for storage. But you can use my bedroom while your flat is being painted."

She'd actually squealed, making him pull the phone away from his ear in alarm. Before he could recover to ask who was torturing her, she'd shrieked "Jesus, Mary and all the saints! You're a saviour, Sherlock Holmes. The best boyfriend I've ever had." 

That had made him wonder what sort of boyfriends she's had in the past. On the other hand, the fact that she'd granted him boyfriend status reassured him that he's on more or less the right path. Agreeing to her moving in for a few days could enhance the sense of connection, maybe to the point of her trusting him enough to let him into her boss's office. If that means giving her her own key to 221b, well, it's a sacrifice he'll make for the case.

Sherlock's really got no choice but to agree if he is to get what he needs from her. Lady Smallwood can't wait: the Parliamentary Oversight Committee that she chairs is due to give its report to the Prime Minister next week, and Magnussen wants a white-wash. Sherlock can't waste any more time.

As Irina and Masha reach the corner of the studio, they break the ballroom hold and move side-by-side, erupting into rapid, twisting footwork and synchonised arm movements.

"What the flipping heck is _that_!" Janine blurts out.

"The Charleston—it's usual practice in dance competitions to put some into a quickstep routine; after all, the dance is just a hybrid of Charleston and foxtrot."

"I'll never be able to do that!" Janine mutters, eyes wide as the couple return to a close hold position and proceed to nearly fly down the length of the floor, footwork so fast that even Sherlock has to take a moment to grasp all the intricacies. The pair end the routine with a flourish of two lock steps and then a fishtail, giving the manoeuvre full sway as the music rises and falls.

"It's beautiful," Janine sighs. "I'd love to do that."

An hour later, Janine missteps, her ankle goes over in the high heel and then she's on her way down to the wooden floor. Sherlock's shoulder twinges as he tries to keep her upright but fails, and he has to take evasive action to avoid crashing into her and falling himself.

Sitting in a heap on the floor, Janine laughs uproariously, and then trails off into the giggles. "Who's the two-legged donkey this time? By God, this quickstep is a hoot."

Irina tuts, shaking her head. "You fall because you are hopping. Put feet together smoooothly," she says, demonstrating the side-step. "Glide across the floor."

As he helps Janine to her feet, Sherlock is relieved that she isn't hurt, and that her reaction has been so positive. The speed of the quickstep made her breathless with laughter at times, but she manages it better than he thought she would. Ballroom dances obviously suit her better than Latin.

Janine's mood tonight is playful and she giggles as he manoeuvres her through the spin turns in and out of the corners. The music is fun, lively and cheerful, which adds to her amusement: _Let's Face the Music and Dance_ , written by Irving Berlin for an Astaire and Rogers dance routine in 1936. Irina had chosen the Nat King Cole version.

Sherlock finds the first line of the song is ominously appropriate: _There may be trouble ahead…_

As he steers Janine through the basic step sequence, the lock step and the natural turn, the idea of her in Baker Street is all he can think about. It's been increasingly hard to fend off her advances. Having moved in last night is going to accelerate her demands for intimacy. Kissing, cuddling, and the touching thing he can fake, and convincingly so; he's an actor who's learned his lines. The "next stage of bedroom", as Irina had called it, is something he's been trying to put off for as long as he can—hopefully, forever. That will be exponentially harder now she's actually sleeping _in_ his bedroom.

As Irina and Masha demonstrate the steps of the tipple chasse into the reverse turn, he's wrestling to find excuses for not being home yet again tonight. Janine brings him back to the here and now, murmuring, "Tipple chasse? I should be a natural at this."

The song's words, as the professionals sweep across the floor — _But while there's music and moonlight and love and romance/Let's face the music and dance —_ force Sherlock to confront the obvious truth _._ He's been spinning a tale of love and romance long enough, postponing the inevitable. With Janine spending her nights at Baker Street, things will come to a head. Tonight he might get away with one more "appointment with criminals", but she won't buy that excuse forever. Somehow, he is going to have to make Magnussen deal with him.

It's going to take some fancy footwork to manage the next few days… and nights.

oOoOoOoOo

"I'll fix the coffee." Janine is rummaging about in the cupboard for the grinder, the beans and the cafetiere, as Sherlock picks up his violin. Turning his back to her, he closes his eyes and starts playing.

Over the noise of her filling the kettle, he hears her laugh. "You are one talented guy. Do you sing, as well?"

Obligingly, he takes up the refrain singing to accompany his rendition of tonight's dance music. " _Before the fiddlers have fled…. Before they ask us to pay the bill and while we still have the chance… Let's face the music and dance_ _."_

He completes the third verse and then returns to the first and second as she prepares the coffee. Only the brief blitz of the coffee grinder interrupts his concentration; he's gathering courage for what he needs to do tonight.

After she's poured the coffee and made herself comfortable on the sofa, he finishes the piece with a flourish.

"You have a beautiful singing voice. Bravo, encore!"

He shakes his head, puts the violin back in its case and loosens the bow strings. "Enough for tonight. I like my coffee hot."

As he reaches for his cup, Janine looks up with a coy smile. "Like your women hot, too?" There is enough obvious innuendo in her tone of voice to make him realise that she is giving this a sexual connotation, enough to dispel his initial confusion over why a woman's body temperature would make any difference to their appeal.

He realises that she is fishing for a compliment, so he decides to pay her one. "You were hot tonight with your dancing. The quickstep is clearly your best dance so far."

The answer seems to satisfy her enough to earn a smile. "Thanks to you, teacher."

He takes a large swallow of coffee. It's hot and black, but she hasn't put the right amount of sugar in it. John always made him a perfect cup of coffee, even though he was more a tea drinker himself. It's only been twenty-four hours since Janine moved in, but in that time, she's made him more aware of John's absence. Every time he spots another item she's unpacked from her suitcase —clothes, cosmetics, shoes, books— it screams at him, _NOT JOHN'S_.

Finishing his coffee, he sets the cup down on the table and says, "You and I need to talk."

"What, instead of kissing?" she says flirtatiously.

"I'm going out again tonight, which is why I needed the caffeine."

Her expression falls. "And there I was, hoping the boost would stimulate your appetite for something else."

"Duty calls. I'll be out until dawn. Make yourself at home."

"This is a case, right? You're not just doing this to avoid me?"

"Of course not," he lies with perfect sincerity. After a lifetime of social scripting, of masking who he is behind a façade of typicality, his skill at lying is a sharply honed coping mechanism.

He pours her another measure of cognac. "I'm spending time amongst the homeless tonight, staking out a criminal who operates a sex trafficking ring in south London. His people work at night, and therefore, so must I."

"Sounds… horrible. Wouldn't you rather be tucked up in bed with me? Sex between two consenting adults is much more fun."

_Over my dead body._ He drags out of his disguise box the sad smile and puppy-dog eyes. "Whatever I might prefer, this work matters. People are getting hurt. Lives are at stake."

She sighs. "You're a good man, Sherlock. I suppose I shouldn't be selfish. I do like spending time with you but I understand. Okay, a pass for tonight."

If this is what being in a relationship with a woman is like, Sherlock wonders how on earth John could want to get married. In his experience guilt and a tight leash on one's freedom of movement are not proper ingredients of friendship let alone a lifetime commitment such as matrimony. It's a warning sign that if he doesn't get her onside soon, he will lose his chance to get into Magnussen's office.

It's now or never, he tells himself. "There is something I need you to do for me, relating to a different case I am working on during the daytime. Can you take a message from me to your employer? I'd like to meet him face-to-face."

Her eyes widen in surprise. "Why?"

"I need a news story to run that will flush out my suspect from hiding."

She's shaking her head a bit. "He'll just tell me to pass it onto the editor of one of his papers."

"It's a _bona fide_ story, one that should appeal to him."

"What's it about?"

He shakes his head. "I can't go into specifics; client confidentiality and all that. Tell him it's related to the Parliamentary Oversight Committee report. You organise his diary, so you can slot something in? It won't take long. Sometime tomorrow would be really helpful."

She seems to be a bit uncomfortable about the suggestion, making Sherlock worry that she's going to say no. "It's what people in a relationship do, isn't it? Help each other out, use their connections to benefit one another. We're good dance partners, why not this too?"

"You considering me as an alternative to John Watson? Someone who could help you in your case work? I'm a working girl, Sherlock. Bills to pay, savings to make. I can't afford to quit my job."

"My line of work can be quite profitable. I haven't bothered because I don't need the income. That could change."

She leans back onto the sofa cushions. "That's a serious proposition?"

"We've been dancing around this for weeks now. You are sitting in my flat, about to sleep in my bed, and you still need reassurance that I am serious?"

"Well, putting it that way, I suppose you've got a point."

"So, you'll ask him?"

"Yeah, why not? Maybe it will help him see that I can do more than just manage his diary, type his dictation and get his travel sorted."

He breathes a sigh of relief. "Good, that's good." Can it really be this easy? He hopes so.

oOoOoOoOo

Sherlock's third night in the doss house near Herne Hill is uneventful. A new lookout on the door, who keeps his head down, features hidden in the depths of his hoodie, but nothing else is different, which suits him admirably. He slips another twenty-pound note into the grubby hand, asking him to keep an eye on him during the night, making sure he's still breathing.

"What do I do if you ain't?" is the snarky reply.

"Call this number." He makes the tall skinny guy tap John's number into his phone. "He's a doctor; lives locally, won't cause a fuss or tip off the police to a bust if you call him."

"You planning a long session then?"

"Mind your own business."

He's got a frightful headache. The stimulants and cocaine he'd consumed today may have helped him to the brink of a breakthrough, but it's been at a cost. Stretched out on the sofa, ignoring Mrs Hudson's tuts and grumbles about the "state of this place", he'd spent the afternoon topping up the cocaine with Purple Wave.

The doubling up had given him enough of a boost to work out the timeline. Mycroft's trips to Tbilisi started in the summer when he was eighteen. Sherlock was under house arrest, waiting to go up to Cambridge University. Then there'd been a long trip through the Caucasus region during his second year at Trinity College, while he'd been busy with Victor.

A year later, Sherlock's bingeing behaviour after his release from rehab had been interrupted by Mycroft's sudden promotion to run the S&ILS, provoking more than the usual complaints about his "not having time to sort you out, brother mine." That had ended up with him in another rehab stay, this time at the Priory clinic near Bethlem and Maudsley hospitals, where he had first met Mycroft's PA who he now knows is the daughter of the man who had once run the Georgian intelligence service*.

He'd found the other threads of the Georgian connection hidden in the past years, enough to know for certain that Mycroft is being blackmailed by the Mystery Man. Sherlock is still not sure what the connection is to Lady Smallwood and Magnussen, but he knows it's not coincidence; the universe is rarely so lazy. One more big push tonight and the truth may be within his grasp.

Leaning up against the wall of the first-floor room in the ruins of the Turkish bath, Sherlock contemplates the packet of powder in his left hand. By the dim street light getting into the room he can't distinguish between the heroin and the cocaine powder he'd mixed this afternoon. He'd analysed the heroin, identified the strength of the fentanyl used to cut it, and done the same for the cocaine's fillers. This is a clinically clean dose, potent enough to take his focus to the outer limits of his capacity.

Taking a speedball tonight is a measure of just how desperate he is to solve this case. In theory, injecting the two drugs together should accentuate the positives and cancel out the negatives, boosting the high and cutting back the side-effects. Sherlock is a chemist and he has experience with this combination. Get it wrong, and the dosage kills. Enough Hollywood celebrities have learned that the hard way.

It's a fine balance. Too much stimulant drives him into a state of hyperexcitement; he can't sit still. Over the past week, he's had to work off some of his physical energy, so he'd agreed to work with Masha at the studio for an hour before Irina and Janine arrive; the Russian is choreographing a dance sequence for a new West End musical and he needs someone to partner the star. It gives him an excuse to stop thinking for a moment, and the exercise is a welcome release. Janine isn't a good enough dancer yet for their sessions to be anything like the workout he needs.

Tonight had been a bit better. The frenetic pace of the quick step and Janine's good humour had sustained him though the early part of the evening. He'd taken a detour into the loo at the end of the lesson for a quick top-up of cocaine, to give him the Dutch courage needed to ask Janine to set up a meeting with Magnussen. If he's to make progress on the case, he has to confront the Dane and ask whether he will accept Sherlock as an intermediary. Lady Smallwood refuses to plead; Magnussen has not deigned to communicate with her. The impasse is heading for disaster on Monday when the Committee report is published. Only Sherlock can break through the mess and steal the letters back. To do that, he has to meet Magnussen. Long distance deduction can only take him so far; face-to-face scrutiny is needed. Before that, he needs to work out the connection between Magnussen and Mycroft, because it's there, he's sure of it.

oOoOoOo

He's at the tail end of the huge rush when things start to fall into place. Whatever dirty deed Mycroft had done in Georgia has come back to haunt him. The Mystery Man is certainly blackmailing him about it. Could it be Magnussen? The man has form for it; Lady Smallwood is only the latest in a long line of suspected cases tied to his name. The head of an international media empire is able to extract all sorts of things from people who are leery of seeing something appear in a newspaper. Not mere money; Magnussen gets off on the power of it and as a way of influencing decisions beneficial to his business interests.

But the timeline doesn't work properly, given that the Mystery Man had been involved in the attempt to murder Sherlock when he was at the Priory Clinic before he went up to Cambridge. From his research for the Smallwood case, Sherlock knows that Magnussen was in Australia for most of 1997, sniffing around the Fairfax media empire that was also being stalked by Kerry Packer and Conrad Black.

The euphoric rush is spinning his mind off in a dozen different directions. Why would Mycroft would ever tolerate something like blackmail, let alone put up with it for decades? Sherlock has no illusions about his brother. The man is perfectly capable of ruthlessness, and has been deploying it on behalf of Queen and Country for decades. So, what could be stopping him from taking whatever action is needed to end this crime?

He knows, _knows_ with a certainty born of months of patient Mind Palace work that Mycroft had done something wrong when he was just starting out in the intelligence service, when Sherlock was only a child. By the time he was fifteen, Sherlock had known that his brother was in the business; Mycroft's behaviour at their father's funeral had confirmed it*.

Whatever it is, his brother has been carrying this weight for decades. Maybe the blackmail is more recent? Could it be that the recent theft of Sherlock's medical files from his solicitor's office—and the most peculiar finger bone tied with a turquoise thread** —had been a message to Mycroft? _Pay up or your brother gets it._ He stifles a laugh. If so, the blackmailer doesn't know Mycroft very well. He's more likely to throw Sherlock to the wolves than to bend to any pressure on his account. A lifetime of lectures starts rolling through his head— _Sentiment? Caring is not an advantage. Don't be stupid. I'm the clever one. Friends?_ _Of course, you go in for that sort of thing now—_ delivered with that sneering tone that conveys Mycroft's derision.

Angrily, Sherlock shuffles that emotional drivel out of his way. It's a sign that his control of the stimulation is way past its peak; it's all downhill from now on. He wonders about a second dose.

Gritting his teeth, Sherlock is suddenly engulfed in a snowstorm of newspaper cuttings, whirling around him in a blizzard of information, spinning too quickly for him to read the text or catch the headlines. Then someone switches on the sound, and a cacophony of newsreaders start shouting in time to television images; the scandals of the past decade unleash a tsunami of noise and visual images, a maelstrom of media about Wikileaks, The Panama Papers, Weinstein, Sackler and Perdue, Volkswagen on diesel, Snowden, Salomon Brothers, Lance Armstrong, Epstein, a whole parade of political leaders brought down on charges of bribery and corruption. Rape, sexual harassment, adultery—the voices all trying to out-shout each other, to feed the frenzy that keeps them in their jobs.

Sherlock opens his eyes briefly, confused. Is the cacophony of loud voices in the room? As his bleary eyes focus on the recumbent form of the heroin user on the mattress next to his, he shoves himself up on one elbow to survey the other occupants. The light is dim; a few candles, the occasional flick of a lighter as someone starts to cook up his next dose. The sounds of ragged breathing, the occasional groan (or is it a moan of bliss? Hard to tell the difference). No, the voices are in his head, not in the room.

The light sources are haloed, a ring of refraction around them that warns him of impending synaesthesia; already the taste in his mouth is purple, the sound of his hand stimming against the rough blanket is amplified enough to drown out the media voices. Somewhat alarmingly, the sensation tastes of a roast dinner, complete with gravy. His stomach growls in anticipation.

Sherlock sits up, back to the wall, trying to regain control before he loses it completely. The shouting newscasters make him wish he had a mute button, because it's making him nauseous. He checks his breathing; tries a few deeper breaths, making the noise retreat a bit. Tentatively, he closes his eyes again, trying to control the assault on his senses.

The tempest of newspapers is still there. Snatching one headline— _FAKE DETECTIVE_ — out of the maelstrom, he latches onto his own ordeal by media, the one big lie wrapped up in lots of little truths about him. Sherlock concedes that Moriarty had been adept at manipulating Kitty O'Riley, giving her enough of his drug habit, his time on the streets, his stints at rehab, all information handed to him by Mycroft. It made the final lie sound trustworthy. Sherlock wracks his increasingly addled brain trying to remember whether the paper that printed it all was part of the CAM empire.

_Another dose?_ Is that what is needed to clear his head? He fumbles in his pockets, trying to remember where he'd put the packet with the rest of the mixture.

Before he can do so, a black hole in his head opens up and sucks him right out of that line of enquiry; the gravitational pull of his evidence board is pulling him closer to the edge of oblivion. Right in the middle, where the Mystery Man's silhouette is, the hole is growing bigger. The event horizon looms in front of him. Can he avoid being dragged in?

_FOCUS._

His ears pick up the fact that he's just shouted this.

A moment passes —or is it longer? He can't tell. But something is tapping his cheek and it's getting more insistent. He manages to prise open one eye, to see another bloodshot eye looking at him with concern.

"You okay in there?"

"Piss off." It's all he can manage.

"Well; you're breathing and that's all you paid me to do. So, don't take anything more. You've had enough."

For some reason that makes Sherlock laugh. As the watchman pushes him back down on the mattress, he feels his pockets being picked. And then the black hole widens and swallows him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The story of the Mystery Man, the Georgian connection and who is behind all of the pressure being heaped on Sherlock is a central theme through many of my stories. The reader looking for more backstory should read "Magpies: Two for Joy", "Three for a Girl" and "Four for a Boy", as well as a couple of stories in Periodic Tales series, notably polonium, plutonium and potassium, for a villain named Fitzroy Sherrin Ford who is so much more than Mofftiss' Eurus. If, you are in a hurry, then there is a shorter version of the timeline to which Sherlock is referring in "Watching Brief" in the Got My Eye On You series. 
> 
> **The turquoise thread around the finger bone and the theft of Sherlock's medical file is covered in Krypton, in The Periodic Tale Series.
> 
> Playlist: Let's Face the Music and Dance, written by Irving Berlin for an Astaire and Rogers dance routine in 1936. Irina chose the Nat King Cole version. Listen and watch [Here](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TjJHnKw7YNA)
> 
> By now, you should have worked out who the "Watchman" is, after reading The Big Issue in my Got My Eye On You series. If you missed it, then find it [here](https://archiveofourown.org/series/26511619).


	6. Fifth Dance: Argentine Tango

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Originating in Argentina, the tango was a dance of immigrants and lower classes, often danced between two men, due to the shortage of available women. A good tango dancer is one who transmits a feeling of the music to the partner, leading them effectively throughout the dance, which relies heavily on improvisation. Tango is often called the vertical expression of a horizontal desire, e.g, a substitute or foreplay for sex.

"Tomorrow. Eleven o'clock London time, here at the office?"

"That will do. Thank you, Miss Hawkins. You have been most accommodating." There is a sound of chuckling over the phone, which Janine is able to translate as amusement, for once not at her expense. Her boss adds "Most amusing that he wants to talk about the Oversight Committee Report. What the British would call a 'fortuitous coincidence'. How clever of you to engineer that. Hold the line a moment; I need to tell the driver something."

Magnussen dispenses praise only once in a blue moon, so Janine soaks it up while she can. It's well-deserved; she's done everything he asked her to do. Not that it's been any hardship: Sherlock's surprisingly good company; the kissing and cuddling are fun. For such a hot-looking guy, Sherlock is gentle, courteous and rather refreshing after her husband-hunting days.

A waste of time from that point of view, though; Sherlock is clearly not husband material. His odd lifestyle and habits around the flat are not to her taste. The place is a rubbish tip, his domestic habits are annoying for someone sharing, and he is sadly reticent about sex, despite trying hard to demonstrate he isn't asexual. He's not shy about his body; he parades about the flat in a dressing gown after hogging the bathtub just as she needs it in the morning to get ready for work.

She twists the phone cord around her finger. Hurry up and wait is the rule of working with Magnussen. He keeps her on hold more as a power game than anything else, reinforcing his dominance.

 _Quick, quick, slow._ It reminds her of the dancing. Sherlock's hold on her is different. His hand on her back communicates an intention, not an order. His hand holding hers keeps her in balance as they move across the floor. Sherlock is a fine dancer, and he's an even better kisser, but she's given up hope of wrestling him into the bedroom to see if all that smouldering hotness can translate into something meaningful. Even if she did, Janine knows he isn't the husband for her. She has to earn or marry enough money to buy her father's safety, as well as a stable income to fund the home in the country and the creature comforts of being a wife and mother. Sherlock doesn’t need of someone like that.

In the month they've been seeing each other, Janine knows that what Sherlock really wants is for John Watson to come back to Baker Street, so the two of them can recapture what they had before his faked death. Magnussen had been very clear; John Watson is the only person that Sherlock Holmes has ever cared for, and Janine's role had been to try to make him jealous. It hadn't worked, because John has been absent from Sherlock's life ever since the wedding. Her gentle hints that he should call the Watsons have been ignored or dismissed. "We don't need them," he says. "I want you all to myself," he adds gallantly. Janine has come to recognise when he is using stock phrases out of some romance book or other.

Need and want are two different things in Janine's book. Sherlock may not want to admit his feelings, but his need for John Watson is detectable, even to her eyes. Sherlock looks sad when he thinks she can't see him. She'd done her best, but knows it's not enough; in Sherlock's case, no woman could ever compete with John Watson.

When it comes to keeping Magnussen happy, though, her work with Sherlock has hit the spot. Her boss had told her to get close, to move in, to find out what Sherlock was doing in the post-John Watson phase of his life, and Janine has managed to deliver. He'd told her about the drug habit, and she'd seen enough evidence of it to corroborate the fact that he's using again. She'd found his gear and some supplies in the pocket of his jogging trousers left in a heap of dirty clothes he'd ditched this morning before heading into the bath.

The line reconnects and the Dane's cold voice interrupts her thoughts. "Agenda for the rest of the day," he commands.

"Your flight this evening is from Orly; the CAM jet will be ready and waiting in hanger nine from seven thirty, in case your meeting finishes early. Do you need me to do anything else?

"Actually, Miss Hawkins, I do. You need to meet tonight with Mary Watson. Remind her of the message I sent in the wedding telegram. Tell her I need to see her tomorrow evening."

"You have a marketing dinner tomorrow night, at the Guildhall, from seven thirty until after eleven."

"I can arrive late for that."

"She may have something else on tonight. It's not like I can snap my fingers and she'll come running. We haven't spoken since the wedding."

"You were her Maid of Honour."

"Only because you wanted me to become friends with her. If you hadn't pointed me in her direction, made me join her gym and get friendly with her… Well, she's not really my type. A bit cold and superior, always makes me think she knows something I don't."

"You are too modest, my dear. I suppose a lifetime of pretending to be the daughter of a loyal Provo honed your acting skills. Shame if it's all for naught. Do what you women do so well. Invent a dramatic reason why you have to see her tonight. Deliver that message in person tonight, or you might make me send a message to certain people I know in Ireland."

There it is. The threat. God, how she hates this trap she is caught in. "Very well. I'll do it. I'll see you tomorrow morning, here at the office."

As soon as she puts the phone down, Janine starts to worry. What is Magnussen's agenda? Why does he want her to mess up Sherlock's life like this? Janine is surprised at the fact that she is feeling protective towards Sherlock, but it is true. Ever since this whole damned game of CAM, making her befriend Mary, pushing her into this strange relationship with Sherlock…what is he after? It all makes her feel so used. A pawn in someone else's game, and it is frustrating as hell.

oOoOoOoOo

At ten minutes past five, Mary arrives at the dance studio looking a bit harried and flushed. She's late, enough to make Janine fidget and curse under her breath, then pray that she isn't going to be stood up. When she sees the familiar short blonde woman across the reception area, she heaves a sign of relief.

"What's the drama?" Mary demands.

Always to the point, Mary's just that little bit too brusque in her manner to make Janine warm to her. Tonight, however, it suits her purpose to let her emotions show. She shakes her head. "Not here, in private. There's something I need to show you and then to ask."

There's a flicker of annoyance across Mary's eyes, but she follows Janine through the turnstyle and into the corridor. It's still crowded with dancers; the changeover at five o'clock is one of the busiest. Janine heads for the far end, passing the door to the studio where the sign signals _In Use_. A slow beat of some sort of Latin dance can be heard.

Opening a door marked Staff Only, she leads Mary down a poorly lit hall. The soundproofing is less evident here, and the music from the studio bleeds through the wall. She and then turns left, stopping in front of a wooden shutter on the left wall. "This is far enough."

Mary's not hiding her impatience. "I had to leave an important appointment early to get here, Janine, so this better be good."

"Sorry to interrupt, but you're the one who got me into this mess."

A raised eyebrow is Mary's only answer, so Janine asks her question. "Remember that telegram, the one Sherlock read out at the wedding?"

"From CAM," Mary's expression shifts into something that can only be described as predatory. "Of course I remember. I never did get the chance to ask you why you told your employer about being my maid of honour. Why would he give a damn about my being an orphan?"

"I didn't tell him. He _knew_ , because he's been interested in Sherlock Holmes, and John Watson and therefore _you_ for months. Magnussen wants a word with you, in person, in private. At his flat at the London HQ. Tomorrow night." 

After a moment's silence, Mary erupts into laughter. "Fucking hell, why does everyone assume that I will jump when they click their fingers?"

"Shhhh. Not so loud."

Mary shakes her head. "The tango music drowns us out. What's CAM's angle? Is he fishing for a story?"

"I don't know. Don't shoot the messenger; I'm just telling you what he said. And it's important that you go."

"Important for you? Why?"

"Because if you don't, he'll do something really nasty to my family, something that could end up with my father being killed."

"He's blackmailing you?"

Janine nods.

"He could have phoned me. Why is he blackmailing you into carrying a message that he could have delivered in any of a dozen different ways?"

"Because he knows you'll listen to me."

"Why should I?"

 _Well, so much for our 'friendship'._ Mary's icy response gives Janine the courage to deliver the next part.

"Because you owe me. You should have told me the truth. Sherlock isn't asexual, he's gay and he's pining for your husband."

Mary's eyebrow rises again, scepticism personified.

"I can prove it. Watch." Janine turns to the shutter and slides it slowly open, revealing the dance studio. As their eyes adjust to the brightness of the room, she explains. "Two-way mirror. The dancers can't see us. Apparently, it was used on a film, and they never took it away."

Janine had found the corridor and the window two days ago, when she'd left the studio looking for a loo. A wrong turn and curiosity had revealed a secret viewing spot, which she'd reported to the front desk, incensed that someone might be watching her when she was doing her lesson with Sherlock. She'd been assured that no one but the staff even knew it was there, and the corridor was just used for storage.

She'd returned yesterday early, to find out what Sherlock and Masha have been getting up to in the hour before her lesson.

The third man in the room is smaller, about the height of John Watson. Last night, she'd take a photo with her camera and identified him when Sherlock had left her at Baker Street.

"The tall guy is the Russian choreographer, he's also teaching me and Sherlock an hour from now. The short one is Kit Defratis, the latest West End heartthrob, rumoured to be working on a new musical. They're teaching him a tango routine."

The music is modern, a persistent synthesised rhythm that sounds vaguely like an accordion overlaid with syncopated tympani beat. Sherlock is standing alone, loose-limbed, arms at his side. As a piano comes in on the recording, it's his cue to bend his knees and shift his weight sinuously on his hips, sliding first his left foot in three circles timed to the music, and then his left does the same, before an exaggerated high flick behind. The momentum carries him through a smooth 360-degree spin on his right leg, left leg outstretched so his toe glides across the floor. He ends the manoeuvre by bringing his feet together with a stamp on the wooden floor, adding a third percussive element in time to the music.

A slow, sexy side step to the left with a tiny flick of his left foot, and then Sherlock walks away, looking over his shoulder at Defratis.

Janine's seen the routine twice before now, and both times it had taken her breath away. It's clearly a challenge. Masculine, charged with energy, but nevertheless an invitation.

Defratis responds, sauntering over to Sherlock and then stamping his own foot. Sherlock moves forward in a slightly domineering way, and the shorter man backs up in perfect step. The two men are still apart, until Defratis strides forward and flicks his knee up, kicking alongside Sherlock, then spinning away in a series of turns and high kicks. It's his response to the challenge, as if daring Sherlock to duplicate or better the moves.

The two men keep circling each other, eyes firmly on each other. It's not a fight, not a seduction but somewhere in-between; the atmosphere is charged. The piano gives way to a more orchestral treatment as Sherlock breaks the circle, stepping in and then executing exactly the same routine that Defratis had just done, but adding a couple more very fast foot movements, as if taunting his opponent that anything he can do, Sherlock can do better.

A hand is grabbed, weight used to move the pair in a sequence of leaps, spinning off into legs flashing, interlocking, kicks synchronised to a step, between each other's legs. At one point, legs interlock and the momentum spins the pair, which they break by moving to a simultaneous side-by-side leap that is almost balletic in its form.

As the tempo slows, Sherlock pulls the shorter man into a close hold.

A _very_ close hold. Bodies touching their full length—knees, thighs, groins. Chest to chest, Defratis' head turned so he can tuck it in beneath Sherlock's chin. The pair now move as one, a series of quick foot movements, Sherlock trapping the other man's right foot between his own, forcing the man to come to a halt. Now the pair is avoiding eye-contact, letting their bodies do the talking.

Trapped by a motionless Sherlock, Defratis takes his free leg and rubs his foot up Sherlock's leg. It's a highly suggestive, erotic gesture that leaves little to the imagination.

Mary shifts her stance. "The vertical expression of a horizontal desire."

"What?"

Mary points. "The tango. Used to be danced between two men, because there was a shortage of women willing to do it. You're reading too much into it."

"Wait." Janine hopes that Masha will repeat the sort of instructions she'd overheard last night.

The music comes to an abrupt end as the Russian switches the music system off. "Need to work on close hold, guys. Sherlock, move your hand further across his back. This isn't ballroom."

Sherlock obliges, and the effect is to bring DeAngelo even tighter into his chest.

"Cheek to cheek," Masha commands. Sherlock dips his head, and the shorter man tilts his, to comply.

"Now pretend it's John Watson and let's get some hip action in there."

Masha taps the remote and the music resumes. What follows leaves little to the imagination, as Sherlock and Defratis continue to dance in close hold.

Mary turns away from the window. "What is your point?"

"That Sherlock Holmes is not what you said he is."

Mary laughs, much to Janine's surprise. "I was trying to protect you; I know you are on the hunt for a husband. It seemed wise to try to put you off him. He's broken enough hearts; people who think he is something he isn't."

"Including your husband?"

"Don't go there. They were never a couple."

"I'm your friend, Mary. I don't want you to get hurt." Janine can only hope that Mary accepts the lie.

Mary's answering smile doesn't quite reach her eyes. "John chose me. He's not gay. I'm pregnant which means we're a family now. I have no problem with John staying friends with Sherlock."

"Congratulations!" On autopilot, Janine says it, while dampening down her own maternal hunger. There is something in Mary's manner that unsettles Janine but she can't put her finger on it. Maybe it's not about Sherlock, and she's wrong about why her boss is interested in Mary. "Why does Magnussen want to talk to you? Why did he send that message to you at the wedding?"

A wry smile, then "Don't know. Haven't a clue, really. If you promise me you won't tell Sherlock or John, I'll go see your boss, tomorrow night, around eight. That okay?"

Janine hopes that If Sherlock gets to see Magnussen first, then perhaps whatever Mary has to say won't hurt him. It's the best a pawn can do when she hasn't a clue what the game's rules are. She nods, "I’ll put it in the diary."

oOoOoOoOo

As he makes his way into his chosen spot in the doss house, Sherlock has to step around a couple sprawled on a tatty sofa. The male is smoking, the scent of weed is hanging about him in a cloud. _Second generation Jamaican, living at home with a mother and two sisters, a bookkeeper for a respectable business, studying at night school for an accountancy qualification._ Sherlock deduces the young man's staying off the hard stuff, smoking a spliff now and then to prove to his girl that he's still in the groove. He's here tonight to keep an eye on her, make sure she doesn't overdo things. In five years, they will be married, living out in the suburbs, with two kids and a painful mortgage, so they feel the need to do drugs to prove they aren't growing old too quickly. The thought gives him an unwelcome pang of loss that he has to stamp on quickly.

"Hey, don't I know you from somewhere?"

The question from the man's companion is slurred, and Sherlock ignores it. She's under the influence of something more substantial, a designer stimulant most likely, easily purchased by someone who is a well-paid croupier at a West End casino. She peers at Sherlock as he walks by, pronouncing rather loudly, "That's the bloke on the telly; you know…"

"Who?"

"That detective fellow. Don't cha remember 'im? 'E's the one that stopped that bomb under Parliament."

The revelation is greeted by a guffaw of laughter from her man. "Should'a let it go off; save us all from the bloody politicians." The pair is still giggling as Sherlock gets to his corner, the mattress which he's been claiming for the past three nights. He wonders how many of the other occupants of the room will have registered the conversation and still be able to remember it tomorrow.

Being noticed is important. He didn't pay for this slot in the former Turkish Baths to be private. If he'd wanted to keep his habit from attracting attention, he would have been in one of his bolt holes. He wants—no, _needs_ — there to be rumours circulating about his drug habit. It will make it more likely that Magnussen will see him, and agree to Sherlock being Lady Smallwood's proxy in the negotiations. The man is a bloodhound after the scent of celebrities gone bad. For once, Sherlock is willing to trade on that fact, because it will help him solve the case. Face-to-face, he intends getting to the bottom of what Magnussen has on Mycroft.

As he settles down on the mattress, Sherlock reaches in his pocket for the speedball bag: a carefully mixed dose of heroin and cocaine, the brown and white powders purged of their fillers and in an exact dose blend that he can trust. One advantage of being a chemist is that he can ensure his drugs will carry no surprises. He needs euphoria and then oblivion, and he needs both fast. A speedball is the best of both worlds. Heroin slows dopamine reabsorption, doubling its effect. Cocaine boosts that to four times the normal amount. Together, there is interaction and the dopamine exciting his brain will be ten times the normal levels.

He opens his box, takes out the tools of his addiction, enjoying the surge of adrenaline and endorphins. Anticipation is part of the pleasure. He measures the powder into the test tube's water and citric acid mix, shakes vigorously and pours it into the bowl of the spoon, hooking the short handle onto his thumb. The hand that is holding the spoon has a noticeable shake, mirrored by the quiver of the flame when Sherlock brings the lighter to the bottom of the utensil.

 _Too much stimulation_. It's the story of his life; too much of everything—thinking, sensation, emotion—going in and not enough coming out.

A tiny bubble on the edge of the liquid emerges and as the bubbles continue, he counts to twenty, knowing it will be properly dissolved by then.

 _Practice makes perfect._ He uses the syringe needle to drop the cotton filter at the very edge of the spoon. It's a medical grade IDUSF; too many addicts use cigarette filters, which eliminate less than half of all particles above 10 micron. He draws the drug into his sterile syringe slowly, making sure that he compensates for the amount that will be absorbed by the filter. A quick tap to release bubbles, a flick to cast off the tiny drip of fluid at the tip of the needle and he's ready.

Now he draws a breath and waits, savouring the moment. Tonight has been a difficult one. Rehearsing it in his memory is a technique he'd learned long ago. _Remember the pain, so the obliteration of it is even more glorious_. When he wakes up tomorrow, the memories will still be there, the curse of an eidetic memory, but the painful edges will be blunted, softened by the drug use, and it will last to deaden that pain forever.

He needs to rob these memories of their pain. When he and Defratis had danced the tango tonight, Sherlock had closed his eyes at one point and wished that it was John who was his partner. Unlike John, Kit Defratis is gay and he's been throwing all his effort into making every move with Sherlock blatantly erotic to anyone watching. After tonight's session finished, he'd grabbed Sherlock's arm, pulled him close in to whisper, "I wish you were my co-star. You and I connect in a way I can't with him."

He'd extricated himself from the man's grip. "Sorry. I'm not in the market for a career change."

"Then what about after the show? It's not all work; I like to play, too, and you'd be one helleva playmate."

Sherlock had shaken his head. "I'm married to my work. Sorry," and left to get a bottle of water before Janine arrived.

Janine. That's another source of pain. He feels the odd pang of regret that his plan means he has to lie to her to such a degree. Lying is easy when it's useful to trap a suspect, break a crime network, dodge a difficult question from an outsider. He finds it harder with people he knows well. The session tonight with her at the dance studio had been tedious, and he'd struggled to keep up the smile as Irina and her partner did a "catch-up" session, running though the four dances that Janine has learned since she started. The salsa still troubles her, the quickstep still amuses her. She can manage a foxtrot and a waltz, so long as the man she is dancing with keeps to basic steps and gives her a firm lead.

Janine and Defratis are similar in that both want from him something he cannot give. As soon as his show opens, Kit will forget him. Janine may take longer. Whatever happens over the next two days, Sherlock has made sure that she should be able to join a beginner's class without fear, in her hunt for a husband, so her time has not been wasted. He makes a mental note to send her an email with a number of central London venues that have after work classes. It's the least he can do, given he's using her to get to Magnussen.

Sherlock knows that Janine is aware that he is using drugs when he is out all night. He's not made any real effort to hide it. He knows that she went through the pockets of his jogging trousers this morning when he left them on the floor of the bathroom, so she will know about the powder in the bag and his rig. If he's lucky, she will have passed the fact onto Magnussen, because the more times he hears about Sherlock's drug use, the more likely it is that the media mogul will agree to meet with him, to see for himself the decline and fall of the hero who saved London last November. Sherlock has worked hard at making himself into bait; he'll need it to crack this case, and to get Magnussen to underestimate him.

If Janine tells Mary, then that too is a positive outcome because it will mean John will distance himself yet further from Sherlock. As painful as that is, it is _necessary_. Whoever put him in the bonfire is still out there. If his drug use gets into the media, then a public repudiation should help protect John. Sherlock can imagine the news team door-stepping John and Mary, thrusting their microphones forward and shouting, "Sherlock Holmes has been arrested for drug abuse. Have you anything to say?" He can script John's reply in his mind. "My wife and I haven't seen him since the wedding, a month ago. I have no other comment to make." Mary will use "No comment" as her shield, but she will know how important it is to keep John away from him. For once, her interests and Sherlock's will coincide.

 _I am alone._ When he opens his eyes to see the squalor and decay around him —both building and its inhabitants — Sherlock lets that fact of his solitude sink in, wrap its tentacles around his heart and squeeze.

It's time. He goes for the obvious vein on the back of his left hand. A small flush to see that the blood is dark shows him he's in the vein rather than the artery and then the slow push on the plunger; halfway, leave enough for the second bump.

As he feels the hot argent move up his arm, the memory creeps in of a line from some pop song that Steve Mason had sung when he first injected Sherlock, a seventeen-year-old who'd never experimented with drugs. _Sail on silver girl.*_

A gasp escapes as everything goes white, sharpening his mind into a blinding flash of energy, along with an orgasmic surge of pleasure that goes right to his groin. Cocaine is better than sex. Well, better than most sex he's had, that's for sure. His cock agrees, springing to attention.

The explosion obliterates all the emotional pain. Gone in a flash of ecstasy that sweeps aside everything else—the loss of John, the depression of being alone again, the irritation with his brother and his decades-long case that has been torturing Sherlock for months. The Smallwoods' embarrassment, the indignities of his disguise with Janine —all disappear in the shockwave that makes his heart rate leap into the stratosphere.

Then within half a minute, the heroin kicks in, softening the razor edges of the cocaine, and soothing his overcharging brain. His body stops aching, his mind stops hurting, and for a few brief heavenly minutes, things are more than bearable. The two drugs go together like yin and yang.

_Oblivion._

He's walking down the corridor of his Mind Palace to the set of double doors at the end. As he pushes them open into the ballroom, an all-wooden structure that imitates in a grand scale the inside of a violin, complete with skylights in the shape of f-holes on his Guarneri violin.

The band is playing one of the all-time great pieces of tango music: Oblivion by Astor Piazzolla.

From the shadows, a tall man with blond hair and a cleft chin emerges.

_Victor._

The first time he and Victor had gone to the dance club Heaven in London had been a revelation. The music possessed him and having Victor there to share it stripped them of their inhibitions. If they had not danced first, Sherlock would never have had the courage to make love to him. Their love had been one long dance, until the music stopped and Sherlock fell apart.

Here in his Mind Palace, Victor draws Sherlock into a close hold, so much more intimate and erotic than the trance music they'd danced to all those years ago. The tango speaks to him on so many levels. The swirling circles of movement, the give-and-take between the leader and the led, the flicks and kicks, the lifts—above all, the body contact of this dance is the closest Sherlock's going to get to live the fantasies that haunt his nights. Victor isn't John, and the effect is not the same, his former lover cannot spark the desire that had pooled in Sherlock's groin at the thought of teaching John this particular dance. How many times has he retreated to the Mind Palace ballroom so he and John could move in perfect harmony, expressing with their bodies the passion that ignited their life together?

There is both a sweetness and a melancholy to the music that suits Sherlock. Victor's arms are strong, the love in his eyes undiminished despite the years, but the sight is an excruciating reminder that Sherlock will never hold John in his arms like this. Tonight, Victor is trying to distract him, but it isn’t working.

Drugs make him randy, an unfortunate consequence of stimulation, and yet another reason to avoid being anywhere near John. The light in Victor's eyes is going out, replaced by the sad expression that had been on his face when Sherlock had told him the lies that he didn't love him and that he never had loved him*.

He'd said that to protect _everyone_ : Victor from being targeted by Moriarty, John from being confronted with the uncomfortable truth that Sherlock was attracted to men, and most of all, to protect himself, from having to admit that he while he had loved Victor once, he now loved a man who would never love him back.

As the last strains of the bandoneon echo away, the music shifts into a waltz, and from the shadows another couple appear on the ballroom floor. John and Mary, only something's odd about both the music and their dancing. When he turns to see if Victor sees it, too, Sherlock realises that he's gone.

_I am alone._

Mary is leading John, and she is dancing with the confidence of someone who is quite good at the waltz. She has John in a proper hold, thighs touching, steering him backwards across the floor in perfect time to the fast waltz being played. She is no beginner and is leading John as if she were a professional dancer.

That fact worries him, to the point where he decides to do here what he never did before the wedding. Sherlock strides across the wooden floor and taps Mary on the shoulder. "I'm cutting in."

Both she and John are startled enough that they stop dancing, and Sherlock steps between them, taking John's hand in his own. "You lead," he whispers to John, and the pair of them whirl away, straight into a complex waltz routine. Mary is left scowling, arms crossed and clearly unamused.

Sherlock concentrates on responding to John's firm lead, as they glide into a reverse turn to avoid a corner, he glances back to see that Mary is gone.

That fact seems to lift an enormous weight off Sherlock's shoulders, just as the waltz ends. He doesn't release John, however. "Another?"

"God, yes," is the reply, without hesitation.

The music returns to a tango and now, at last, Sherlock is dancing with the man he really wants to be with, body and soul. He takes the lead now, and John moves with him, instinctively knowing exactly where the pair is going. The give-and-take of their movements, the erotic suggestion in every step, is clear to both partners.

Sherlock lets his body tell John what he has never been able to find words to say. Arms together, hips into contact, the movement of legs in and out of each other's space. Body-to body, communication is physical, almost visceral. The years of attraction being denied, of sentiment never expressed, of desire stifled… all of that is dropping away.

He leads John into a series of _ochos_ , sinuous figures of eight that allow his partner to show off just to please him. Their connection is exhilaratingly better than anything Sherlock has experienced before on a dance floor, simply because this is _John_ doing it.

His tight compact musculature is giving such an edge to John's every movement. Under a misleadingly normal exterior, John has a kind of electric energy, fuelled by a tinge of violence and a hint of anger barely controlled. The contradiction had been what caught Sherlock's eye at their very first meeting. When dancing, the boundaries between them are only skin-deep; John's exterior camouflage falls away; Sherlock can feel all that emotion barely held in check—and his own rising to meet it. He makes no effort to hide his desire that is taking shape in his trousers.

In the tango, eye contact is part of the drama. Up close like this, Sherlock falls into a pair of eyes he knows better than his own. From a distance people might mistake John Watson's eyes as being a bluish grey. _Idiots._ Who needs a solar system when there is a whole galaxy of colour in John's eyes? Patches of dark blue stand out against a cloud of lighter blue, and a starburst of hazel turns darker brown as it nears the pupil, a black hole that is growing larger, dilating with desire.

An announcement from the band's microphone cuts into the music. Bizarrely, it's in John's voice, calling out, "Isaac? Isaac Whitney?" Sherlock looks at the band, and then back at John, who fades into nothingness. Where he'd held the warm living body close to his, there is now only cold air. Shocked and bereft, Sherlock staggers to a halt, crumples and falls to the floor, closing his eyes in shock and despair.

Behind him, Sherlock hears John ask again, more quietly, "Isaac?" followed a moment later by "Hello, mate. Sit up for me? Sit up."

A voice Sherlock doesn't recognise answers, "Doctor Watson?"

"Yep."

There is a familiar tetchiness in that reply which drags Sherlock's brain out of the drug miasma and into a more crystalline focus that is almost too bright, too sharp to endure. Although his eyes are still closed, he feels the lumpy mattress under him, the stench of sweat and bodily fluids, the burned rope aroma of someone smoking skunk, the acidic almost vinegary scent of heroin cooking. The voices over his shoulder… are they part of a hallucination? Is his need for John creating an audio ghost, a wish fulfilment? He tries to get his breathing under control, using oxygen to push away the last of the dream of dancing.

"Where am I?" It's a young voice, a south London accent, badly slurred, which Sherlock's brain is sufficiently online enough to be able to know that his neighbour is somewhere in the middle of a heroin high.

"The arse-end of the universe with the scum of the Earth. Look at me."

Sherlock can't resist smirking into the corner. John's never been one to tolerate drug use or users. That attitude had kept him clean for the entire time they'd shared 221b. Shame that once he was gone, once he'd married Mary, once he had to be pushed away even further to protect him from whoever put him into the bonfire—well, there wasn't a reason to stay clean, was there?

"Have you come for me?" the boy asks.

"D’you think I know a lot of people here?!"

The sarcasm is sharp enough to cut, and totally wasted on the wasted youth. Sherlock draws a breath and opens his eyes. No dance hall; this is the corner of the room, chipped paint on the wall, the mouldy mattress beneath him and the thumping headache of a come-down. And that's no hallucination behind him, asking "Hey, all right?"

It's John asking it not of him, but of someone else. Why does that rankle so? Shouldn't John be asking whether he's alright, too? Isn't that what friends do? He can hear the doctor's solicitude in his voice. Perhaps the boy is one of John's patients, someone who has taken over in the doctor's attention span, a place Sherlock had once found himself, and wished he still was.

_John's forever dancing with other people; if it's not Mary, it's this Isaac fellow._

Sherlock decides to cut in. Raising himself on an elbow, he turns to look over his shoulder. "Ah, hello, John. Didn't expect to see you here. Did you come for me, too?"

**oOoOoOo to be continued oOoOoOo**

**in _Magpies: Five For Silver_**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you fancy seeing two men doing the tango I have described above, check it out [here](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=AUKX07N54u0)
> 
> Piazzola's Oblivion is found [here](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=e1Hy6WE0SHU)
> 
> "Sail on silver girl…. " The reference to Steven Mason is from the story "Holmium" in my Periodic Tales series. Some fans and critics of the Paul Simon and Art Garfunkel song Bridge over Troubled Water speculated that “silver girl” might be a reference to a needle and that the song was really about heroin use. In fact, in a later interview Simon explained that it was a reference to his first wife, Peggy Harper. Simon started calling her “Silver Girl” after she noticed her first silver-grey hairs. She was barely 30 at the time and the grey hairs made her very upset. 
> 
> For whatever reason Silvergirl chose her name, I thank her for the inspiration she has provided to me in this story. 
> 
> If this version of Victor is a surprise to you and you want to know more, then go explore the [Nothing Made Me Series](https://archiveofourown.org/series/1583050) with the stories, Extricate, The Ex, Exit. If you like those, subscribe to get a future story, Extant.
> 
> Lastly, a shout out to the amazing Fan fic artist, Camillo1978, whose wonderful image of John and Sherlock dancing I have borrowed for this story. Admire it [here](https://64.media.tumblr.com/564841387cd076fe467bafe31215c952/tumblr_p4h7qvaUvH1r8r2fio1_500.jpg)


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